


Love & Cheese

by flyingisland



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Adoptive Broganes, Alternate Universe - College/University, Childhood Friends Garrison Trio, F/M, Hopeless Romantic Lance, Love at First Sight, Love at... extra cheese?, M/M, Minor Allura/Shiro (Voltron), Minor Hunk/Shay (Voltron), Oblivious Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-01-04 04:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 115,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: He’s a teenage boy, in way over his head. He’s a college kid, delivering pizzas on a bike that his mom bought for him when he was twelve. He’s a media major, a movie buff, and a total moron who’s madly in love with the snooty heartthrob at the Deli, who always gives him an extra slice of cheese. He’s a trainwreck, a total lovestruck fool, and a hopeless romantic who always says the wrong thing.But today, despite everything, his one true goal in life is to tell the cute Deli-guy, loud and clear, “It’s not Lucas, it’s Lance.”





	1. Ricotta

**Author's Note:**

  * For [4everbacon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/4everbacon/gifts).



> To Dee. 
> 
> With lots of love and many apologies.

 

_—SchrodingersPigeon Has Joined The Chat—_

_**Hunk3141** : Oh no, Pidge, you do not wanna be here right now, man. Lance is on the warpath. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Awww, but warpath Lance is the best kind of Lance! Who’s pissed him off this time? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I’m not on the “warpath”, Hunk! I’m in love! I’m telling you, dude, that guy was totally hitting on me! There’s no way to deny it, so don’t even bother! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Weren’t you just in love with some girl in your calc class last week? Nyma, or something? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I wasn’t in love with her! And anyway, this is completely different. That guy was totally undressing me with his eyes! Hunk was there, he saw the whole thing! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Do I want to know, or…? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, listen Pidge. It all started today when Hunk dragged me along to another restaurant for his lame food blog… _

 

* * *

 

 

The excitement of first semester is just now beginning to fade back into the monotonous, anxiety-riddled day-to-day that Lance still remembers from high school. He’d been a fool to think that college would be any different.

Hunk had warned him of this, and he hadn’t believed him—that it would be the same lame classes with the same bored teachers, the same impossible assignments—just with different scenery. He’d still have to return to his dorm by curfew. He’d still strike out with pretty girls left and right.

They’d still spend their weekends holed up in Pidge’s room watching _Lord of the Rings_ on an endless marathon—but he’d been too caught up in his romantic dreams of a brand new Lance to really listen. He’d been so determined that a change of scenery was all that he needed to completely change himself.

But he’s still himself, and Hunk is still rambling on about some restaurant that he’d missed somehow on his initial “foodie” tour of the town—how the followers on his blog kept talking about this _“Shirogane’s Delicatessen”_ like it was God’s gift to sandwiches, and he just needed to go there to understand.

And he’s still dragging Lance along with him, just like he did in high school, while Lance ignores his rambling and pretends that he’s literally anywhere else.

“You know Hunk,” he says boredly, tugging his arm from Hunk’s hand and brushing himself off, “Have you ever thought of doing something different? You know… not wasting your weekends writing about these dumb restaurants, maybe… doing something cool instead?”

Hunk pauses, tipping his head to the side and staring at Lance like he can’t even understand a single word that’s coming out of his mouth. He taps a finger over his lips, slowing his pace and turning his eyes to all of their peers passing them on the sidewalk.

It’s 3pm on a Friday and neither of them have classes until Monday morning. There’s a party at one of the frat houses that’s invitation only, but Lance feels like he might be able to pull some strings to get them in. He has class with one of the meatheads on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sometimes he loans the guy a pen. Sometimes he gives him an answer on his homework.

He has connections, he can make this work. But he isn’t so sure about cruising any parties without his best wingman.

“What else am I going to do, Lance? Go to some dumb party? Hit on girls? I have a girlfriend, Lance, and I don’t think Shay would be too happy if I got myself mixed up with the wrong crowd—”

“Hunk, your long-distance girlfriend isn’t going to care if you go to one party! I’m sure she’d be happy to know that you aren’t just sitting around missing her all the time. Do you really think Shay isn’t going to plenty of parties with all of her new friends?”

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oooooh, so this is the part of the story where you’re a bad influence and use Hunk’s girlfriend against him so you can get what you want. Nice one, Lance. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : That isn’t what happened, Pidge! Just listen to the rest of the story! _

 

* * *

 

 

Hunk shakes his head, muttering under his breath about Shay’s close-knit family and all of her apparent opinions about underage drinking. He grasps Lance by the arm again, leading him through the dwindling crowds as they travel further and further from the campus.

“I think I’m good, dude. If you wanna go get drunk at some party, go for it, but I’m perfectly content _“wasting”_ my weekends doing what I like instead of trying to impress a bunch of people who I don’t care about.”

Lance scrunches his nose, but he resists the urge to argue. Hunk has a point, he knows, and he also knows he definitely wasn’t complaining when they broke into Pidge’s parents’ alcohol cabinet back in seventh grade. And maybe the resulting hangover was enough to turn him off of alcohol for good, or maybe he’s just trying to keep a clean conscience so he won’t have to feel bad next time that Shay wants to videochat, but Lance wonders if Hunk would be more willing to experience college life if he weren’t already tied down to another person.

He wonders, miserably, if Hunk would be more open to meeting new people if he were just as lonely and girlfriend-less as Lance himself is.

It’s fine, most days. It’s not like he hasn’t been single basically his entire life. He tells himself that it’s nice to be able to “window shop” without worrying about some girlfriend getting mad at him every time that he turns around to admire a particularly beautiful lady, and he tells himself that he definitely isn’t interested in all of the boring “life planning” that comes along with meeting someone in college.

He’s happy enough being able to pursue his dream career without constantly having to worry about how another person might fit into the equation. He doesn’t have to think about buying a house, about fighting over paint swatches or curtains, about how many kids he might want in some distant future, and whether or not he’ll want to raise those kids Catholic or whatever religion his significant other might hail from.

He doesn’t have to think about introducing anyone to his mom, or setting up awkwardly-timed videochat dates like Hunk does with Shay. He doesn’t have to worry about attending a local school while his girlfriend flies all the way across the country to go to some bigshot university, and he doesn’t have to consider how many hours are between them or what time she goes to bed before he calls.

It’s nice being single, really. It’s freeing and just bursting with opportunities. He could cut his hair if he wanted to—just shave it bald, get a mohawk, grow a mullet—and no whiny girlfriend could even complain about it! He could find a way to go to that frat party and hit on anyone who he wanted to hit on! He could drop out of school and become a monk!

The possibilities are endless!

But sometimes, late at night, when Hunk is wrapped up in his conversation with Shay and Lance is too bored of studying and far too tired to watch TV, he rolls over in his bed and stares up at their shared ceiling. He watches Hunk’s shadow moving about as he talks, as he tells Shay stupid engineering jokes that only the two of them understand, and he gets so excited and so animated that his movements scrape his chair against the floor.

Lance listens to the softness in his voice then, to the way that Shay laughs. And he wonders, with a hollow pang in his chest, how it might feel to ever be that important to another person. How it might feel to be so integral to someone else’s happiness that they’d be willing to call him in the middle of a school night just to catch up.

He wouldn’t exactly call himself desperate, but he’s open to those sorts of experiences. And he’s eager, really, to see what all of the fuss of “serious relationships” is really about.

“Alright man, stop zoning out. We’re here.”

Lance snaps out of his inner monologue just as Hunk pushes open the glass door to the restaurant. The bells ring overhead, and someone greets them from the back. It’s a stereotypical Deli, just like the ones that he’s always seen on TV. The checkered floors, the small cluster of tables in the corner, the meats and cheeses lined neatly behind long, spotless glass counters.

There are only two other customers aside from himself and Hunk—an old man eating chicken wings at a table in the corner, and a businessman browsing the different meats behind the counter. Lance catches a few flashes of red and white behind the counter, catches hints of the curled corners of the clerk’s hair and the low vibrato of his voice as he talks.

He wonders if working in a static position might be easier than delivering pizzas on his bike every weekend. If maybe he should consider putting in his two week’s notice and getting a job at a quiet place like this instead.

Sure, the tips are nice, but he isn’t sure how many more times he can handle almost getting hit by cars. And he isn’t really sure how many more bad neighborhoods he can ride through at night before his luck finally runs out.

 

* * *

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Can we please get to the part of the story where you meet the “love of your life”? Do I really need all of this useless backstory about your stupid delivery job? I know you hate it, Lance! You don’t have to keep telling me! _

_**Hunk3141** : And what is all of this about eavesdropping on my conversations with Shay? I thought you were sleeping, dude! Those conversations are supposed to be private! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Can you both just shut up and listen to the story? I’m getting there, okay? This is all very important! _

_**Hunk3141** : How is this important when I was right there with you and I didn’t get to hear everything that was going on in your head? I still saw what happened! I didn’t need the backstory to understand it! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : JUST LISTEN TO THE STORY! _

 

* * *

 

 

He’s thinking about all of this—about his job and his loneliness, his desperate need to fit in and have a “normal” college experience, his subtle jealousy of Hunk’s comfortable relationship, and how bored he already is with the direction where his life is headed—and he doesn’t take a moment to browse the menu, even as Hunk tugs him toward the counter.

The businessman is just finishing his transaction as they file in line behind him. Hunk starts asking questions about the menu, asks the poor clerk a billion different things about the cheeses and the meats, where their stock is raised, if they prepare things “in house”.

Lance is already bored with it, so he tunes it out. He focuses instead on the bubbly handwriting on the menu, the little cartoon cows and chickens drawn in chalk in the corners and the girlish loops of the l’s and little heart-shaped dots above all of the i’s.

“Can I help you?”

The tone itself isn’t particularly friendly, and it’s jarring, compared to how whimsical and exuberant the text is on the board. Lance realizes suddenly—belatedly, mortified—that he should have been taking this time to figure out what he wants to order instead of zoning out.

He realizes that Hunk is staring at him expectantly, and all he’s doing now is wasting everyone’s time.

A small sense of panic overtakes him, and he flicks his gaze over all of that cutesy text, searching desperately for anything that won’t be too complicated.

Under “made to order”, there’s a sandwich of the day—a “Chicken-Bacon Double” with little sparkles framing it against all of the other different selections. He’s never been the biggest fan of bacon, but his instincts kick in and his mouth moves on its own.

And only when he’s blurted that out, does he actually take the time to look back at the clerk.

He’s thankful now, that he hadn’t looked at the guy before, because he knows, in this moment, that if he’d stared into those beautiful dark eyes even a second earlier, he would have gotten so lost in them that he could never find his way out.

The clerk is short enough that Lance can only see the top of his head over the glass. He’s a pale thing, waifish where his apron ties tight around his waist, but broader in the shoulders—in a way that Lance recognizes from old karate films, of Bruce Lee in the yellow jumpsuit and all of the scrappy guys who took him on in _The Game of Death_.

His face seems to be permanently resting in a scowl—his brows drawn low and his lip jutting out, a hard line to his jaw and a sharpness to his eyes. He isn’t particularly rude, even when Hunk makes nearly a dozen changes to his order as he makes it, and he doesn’t hiss anything under his breath or roll his eyes.

He works quietly, patiently, but when he turns that fiery gaze on Lance, he can’t quite shake the feeling that this guy might be only three steps away from snapping his neck at any given moment.

Hunk’s sandwich is a clever combination of many different ingredients. Even the clerk seems impressed, if his face were apparently capable of doing anything but looking pissy. He wraps it up in white paper, writes _“Hank”_ on the sticker before Hunk corrects him. He doesn’t apologize for it, and his, _“Have a good day”_ sounds sarcastic at best.

But something about him is intoxicating.

Never in his life has Lance ever met a person who seemed to care less than this clerk. Someone with such a soft face, but sharp edges. Someone with eyes so hot that staring at them for too long is akin to peering straight into the sun.

“I—I’ll just, uh—I’ll just… have whatever comes on it.”

The clerk raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t argue or complain. His movements are graceful as he cuts the bread, his fingers gentle enough that nothing gets smashed, despite how quickly he’s moving around.

He pauses, for a split second that feels like an eternity to Lance. He lifts his gaze up, and Lance can feel himself burning. He can feel the scorched embers of those eyes reaching through the glass to meet his own.

His lungs ache as he holds his breath. His heart is a frenzy in his chest.

And in slow-motion, the clerk gives him an extra slice of cheese.

Lance feels as though the entire world around him jolts to a screeching stop. The businessman is chatting with the old man in the corner, but their words are muffled and slow. Hunk is typing something on his phone—either a text to Shay or the beginnings of a review on his dumb blog—but his fingers seem to still mid-type. The lights dim and the hustle and bustle outside fades to a low, slow static.

There is nothing in this moment but Lance and the clerk. There is nothing but glass counters and cheese, loopy cartoonish letters and white chalk cows. There’s nothing but love at first sight, but a boy surely only scowling at him because he’s too shy to flirt with him, and Lance himself, finally meeting someone who’s willing to give him a chance, for the very first time.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Wait, wait, wait. Are you serious right now? Cheese ?! You’re head-over-heels for this random dude because he gave you extra cheese?! _

_**Hunk3141** : Pidge, don’t even try to reason with him. We’ve been arguing all day about this. It’s not that big of a deal, Lance! Sure, the sandwiches are heaven, but the sandwich artist was kind of a dick. I really don’t think a guy like that would be sending you love letters through cheese. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I didn’t see him giving you any extra cheese, Hunk! And you were the one who wouldn’t shut up about your stupid food blog! Why else would he want to impress me?! _

_**Hunk3141** : I just don’t know if you should be getting ahead of yourself here, man. Maybe he’s new and he forgot, or he thought we might turn him in for being rude or something so he threw in some free cheese to make you happy. He didn’t even get your name right, Lance. Does that really sound like a guy who’s madly in love with you? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well obviously he was being coy, Hunk. And if you’d let Pidge hear the rest of the story without spoiling it, maybe she could form her own opinions! _

 

* * *

 

 

“Name?”

The world begins moving again, so suddenly that Lance nearly loses his footing.

“I-I, uh, what?”

Hunk is still typing whatever long-winded thing he’s trying to say. The bell rings overhead as the businessman makes his way out into the street. The clerk is staring at him now from across the counter, a marker in his hand as he holds Lance’s paper-wrapped sandwich.

“They make me write everyone’s names on their stuff. It’s stupid, I know, but I need your name.”

The clerk is wearing a nametag with the same loopy letters. There’s a little star at the edge of it, bleeding from the white into the red border. His uniform shirt matches the tag—a red dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, wrinkled and maybe just a little bit too large, as the extra fabric hangs over the edges of his pristine, white apron. He looks cute even with the dumb hat on his head—the red and white visor hanging low over his eyes. He looks beautiful even as he’s staring at Lance like he’s some kind of moron—even as a clerk in a Deli in an ill-fitting uniform, even as a college-aged kid with an old man’s name like _“Keith”_.

“Your parents must have been real dicks to name you _‘Keith’_ , man. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone under fifty with a name like that.”

It’s not funny. He doesn’t even know why he said it. All that he’d needed to do was give the guy his name. All that he needed to do was just be normal and natural, maybe make a joke that didn’t result in Keith looking at him now as though he’s only a half-step away from killing him. He should have just said his name and went about his business. He shouldn’t have screwed things up so royally by trying to be clever or falling back on those gross _“pick up artist”_ tricks that he’d read about in high school.

He should have just paid for his stuff and left, and forgot about this stupid Deli and this beautiful clerk, but he couldn’t even do that right.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Ohhh, striking out! That’s rough, Lance. _

_**Hunk3141** : Oh, it gets worse, Pidge. _

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t know, they’re dead. Can you _please_ just give me your name?”

He realizes, in this moment, that any chance that he might have had to woo the guy is officially dead as well. He’s murdered it violently, dumped its body into the river and watched it sink down to the deepest depths. He realizes that, if Keith was flirting with him before, he definitely won’t ever make that mistake again.

This is why he can’t have a nice relationship like Hunk and Shay.

This is why he never gets invited to any cool parties.

“U-uh, yeah… It’s Lance.”

Keith shoves off into the back room immediately after he gives Lance his change. Despite everything, he still offers a flat, _“Have a good day”._

Hunk is eating and still typing at a window table across the room. He’s humming his appreciation, positively radiant as he gushes about the flavors of the food. The world around them is lively and bright. It’s warm outside, in the cusp of August. The windows and the floors are so spotless that Lance can’t even escape from his own stupid reflection.

He wants nothing more right now that to go back to his dorm and sleep until this experience feels like nothing more than a bad dream.

And when he finally succumbs to his hunger and the delicious smell of his food, he realizes, with a groan, that the name scrawled in chicken scratch on the paper is _“Lucas”_ instead of _“Lance”._

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Okay, let me get this straight: you called an orphan’s parents jerks, made fun of his name, and then he didn’t even care enough to write your name correctly after you said it to him.... But he gave you extra cheese on your sandwich, so it’s true love? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : That’s not exactly how I would phrase it, but yeah, basically. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : So what? You’re going to go back there and keep making jokes about his dead parents, or…? How exactly is this supposed to work? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well, obviously, I at least have to go back there and tell him that he got my name wrong. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : How can that possibly sound like a good idea to you? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Wait, you know what? Why don’t you just go ahead and do that. And keep us posted, Lance. I’d love to hear about how it works out for you. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : That’s the spirit, Pidge! Just you wait, next time we talk, this guy’s just gonna be begging to date me! _

_—LadiesLoveLance Has Left The Chat—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit (05/13/18)** : Hi guys! Just popping in to tell you that the lovely [deadandskinny](https://twitter.com/deadandskinny) has translated this into Russian! Please check out their work [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6846095/17475655)!
> 
> Hello, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this silly thing!
> 
> It’s a fairly small project, but the inspiration for it was kind of funny. I wanted to recapture that sort of “bubbly and fun” vibe that I get when I look at Dee’s artwork, so I put together an incredibly convoluted backstory just to lead up to the real inspiration for this story, which… unfortunately, I can’t share with you until later on, lest it spoil the plot.
> 
> It’s been really fun to work on this story though, so I hope you enjoy it! (it’s my very first vld au… lord knows how nervous I was to try my hand at it!)
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading!


	2. Pepperjack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: Avocado BLT, Twelve-Piece Chicken Strips, and a large side order of denial.

_—LadiesLoveLance Has Joined The Chat—_

_**SchrodingersPigeon:** Oh God, here we go. _

_**Hunk3141** : Pidge, you’re the one who egged him on. You need to start taking responsibility for these things, man! Someday, you might really talk him into doing something dangerous! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : What, like making an ass out of himself? He does that just fine without my help, Hunk. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, can we cool it with the insults for five seconds here? I have big news. _

_**Hunk3141** : Please tell me it’s not “you went back to the deli” kind of news. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Of course I went back to the Deli! Why wouldn’t I? But listen, that’s not important right now. The important thing is, when I got there, he gave me more extra cheese! Are you guys seriously not going to admit that that’s super weird?! Am I in some kind of alternate universe where giving a random guy extra cheese isn’t the Deli equivalent of asking for his number?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Did he actually give you his number though? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well, no, not exactly. _

_**Hunk3141** : Did you even ask for his number? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well, no. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : So you just went in there and ordered another sandwich, insulted his family some more, maybe… corrected his misuse of your name that you should have just corrected at the counter like a normal person? Very romantic as always, Lance. I’m sure he’s just, what was it again? “Just begging to date you”? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, I get that you think this is funny, but I’m not joking, guys! There really is something weird going on between us and I can prove it! Just listen to me, okay? I knew that something was up when I went back to the Deli for lunch... _

 

* * *

 

 

Lance isn’t really sure why he’s surprised that Keith isn’t there when he returns to the Deli the next day.

Maybe he’d been a little hopeful, sure, but when he really thinks about it, he doesn’t know anyone who works weekdays and weekends as a young person in a college town, so why would someone like Keith be any different?

He wonders if he should have thought this through last night, or maybe if this is just a blessing in disguise. Even if Keith isn’t around, maybe the guy behind the counter has some answers. Maybe he knows enough about Keith that he can tell Lance, maybe… how many other guys Keith apparently sneaks extra cheese when the bosses aren’t around.

The guy working the counter today is a lot taller than Keith. He’s a stocky guy with even broader shoulders, with muscles so thick and bulging that Lance is surprised that he’s managed to squeeze them into his uniform shirt. The dinky little apron barely covers him, and Lance forces himself to pay attention instead of getting distracted again—thinking about how much a guy might have to work out to be this huge, and wondering idly, once again, who the mysterious person is who writes all of the specials in such loopy, feminine hand, while drawing new cartoons on the blackboard menu at the start of every day.

The more he thinks about his limited interactions with Keith, the less it seems like something that he’d waste his time on. He’d think that it was lame, surely—childish and completely beneath him. And the more he looks at the current clerk, the more he doubts that he has the creativity or the mental capacity to take actual time out of his day to doodle such adorable little cartoons either.

He wouldn’t call them “artistic masterpieces” by any means, but they’re cute in a way that he can’t imagine some beefcake like this clerk taking the time to sketch out. And they’re far too corny for a stiff and serious guy like Keith—a guy who openly admits that the rules at his job are “stupid” to total strangers, and who doesn’t even care enough to write the correct names of any of his customers on their orders, even when it’s quiet enough that he can definitely hear them.

Today’s cartoons are a pig and a goat—smiling with sparkly eyes at the corners of the menu. The special is some kind of avocado sandwich, but Lance reasons with himself that ordering the same thing twice would probably be a better way to rule out whether or not the extra cheese was on purpose.

There’s a longer line than yesterday—nearly a dozen people ahead of him, ordering sandwiches, chatting with the clerk, browsing the different meats and cheeses and allowing Lance the time that he needs to consider all of the things that he wants to say.

The clerk is a handsome guy, with a confidence about him that Lance can’t ever imagine having in himself. His dark hair is shaved short at the sides in a tidy crew-cut, the tiny extra tuft of hair that might hang between his eyes pinned off to the side. The name on his nametag is “Shiro” —quotations and all—and he wonders idly if this guy might be one of the bosses here. If he’s made a point of giving himself such an obvious nickname that most people could connect the dots and understand that he’s not just a regular employee.

He looks far too young to be the owner, but maybe he’s the owner’s son. Maybe he’s a supervisor working part-time at mommy and daddy’s store, taking a day or so out of his week to flaunt his status among a roster of coworkers who would rather he just stayed at home instead.

But maybe he’s just thinking too hard about all of this. Maybe this guy really is just some random body-builder who stumbled into a job as a Deli clerk, and maybe it’s completely coincidental that his name sounds so similar to the name of his place of work.

If he is Keith’s supervisor, however, he might have some information about him. He might know more about him than the average employee.

So Lance decides to go with that, despite how little proof he has. He decides, once the line thins out and it’s finally his turn to order, that he’ll ask this “Shiro” what he thinks of Keith. He’ll pretend that he’s nothing but a curious customer, maybe just a normal guy who appreciated his delicious sandwich enough yesterday that he wants to send his regards to—what had Hunk called him again? The “sandwich artist”?

He won’t call him that. That’s too lame and too niche, and surely a cool guy like “Shiro” would immediately realize that something suspicious was going on. He’d realize that no one but a loser with a food blog would call a Deli clerk anything but a Deli clerk, and he’d refuse to give out any of Keith’s personal information to someone who might write about him online.

Maybe he should pretend to be a friend of Keith’s from school instead, but what if Keith doesn’t go to the same school? Maybe he could say that they graduated from the same high school, or they met at the park, or he’s some kind of long-lost childhood friend just hoping to catch up.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Please tell me that you didn’t get yourself wrapped up in some ridiculous lie. Lance, you’ve made me sit through Pretty Woman at least a hundred times now. You do realize that these things don’t end well for real-life people, right? You’re not Julia Roberts, no matter how great you think your legs are. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I didn’t lie! Just be patient, Pidge! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : And don’t even act like you don’t think that I have great legs too. _

_**Hunk3141** : You do have some pretty sweet legs, dude. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Thanks, man. At least someone here is capable of being honest. _

 

* * *

 

 

There are three people left in front of him when the door behind the counter opens. He isn’t paying enough attention at the sound of it—far too wrapped up in his mental arguments to think about who else might be working today.

He won’t recognize them anyway, he reasons, because Keith was the only person who he saw yesterday. If anything, they’ll just be another forgettable face. Maybe another person who doesn’t seem the type to have drawn the cute cartoons on the board or written the specials in that loopy hand. Maybe it’s another beefcake, or another snotty worker like Keith. Maybe it’s the owners, finally showing up to count the cheese stock—surely suspicious that one of their workers is doling out extra helpings to every guy who he thinks is cute.

“Back from break already? You still have five minutes left.”

Shiro’s smile softens as he speaks. He doesn’t turn around as he works slowly, meticulously—less impressive than Keith did, but with more love and care. The tenderness ebbs away slightly as he stops talking to the newly arrived employee to ask for his customer’s name. Lance doesn’t see what sort of handwriting he scrawls it down in, but he assumes that it’s far less imaginative and airy than the cursive on the board.

“It’s getting kind of busy out here and Allura needs help with the meat grinder. She says it’s jammed again.”

The voice that responds to him is familiar. Lance feels his heart leap upwards in his chest, pattering incessantly against his ribcage as though it’s trying to escape.

Shiro is handing the customer their change when Lance finally gains the nerve to look in his direction again. He wonders, with a pang of bitterness in his chest, if he actually manages to get everyone’s names right when he scribbles them on their sandwiches. He wonders if Keith is the only one who doesn’t care enough.

Behind Shiro, despite the fact that he doesn’t look up, even as he continues to speak, Keith stands—hands on his hips, that same careless expression tugging down his lips and dulling the fiery shine of his eyes.

“I’ll let you take over,” Shiro says, that same soft affection nudging its way into his smile as he pulls off his gloves and discards them, “but try to make up that time on your next break, okay?”

Keith rolls his eyes.

“It’s only five minutes. I’m not doing that.”

Shiro pats him on the shoulder as he makes his way to the door. Lance feels, momentarily, as though he’s stumbled into something far too personal, that he isn’t supposed to see. He resists the urge to avert his eyes, and he wonders—hating his stupid heart for planting such paranoid thoughts into his brain—if he’s already too late. If maybe Keith gave extra cheese to Shiro too, and he’s already taken.

It’s an awful thought that immediately feels wrong, and he forces himself to think of anything else.

Like how beautiful Keith is, even after a day has passed. How he’s breathtaking in his oversized uniform, even a second time, and how the sight of him alone makes Lance feel as though his feet are rooted with cement to the floor.

He looks just as bored of this place as he did yesterday. Lance wonders if maybe he would be sick of work too if he even had to come in on weekends.

And he wonders, as Keith washes his hands and dons his gloves, takes his place at the end of the counter and greets a new customer with the same flat tone as before, when Keith has time for his classes between his apparent seven days a week working at this Deli.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You do realize that a lot of service workers actually do work weekends, right? I mean, you work weekends too, Lance. Actually, why weren’t you at work while this was going on? Please tell me you didn’t call off. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Of course not. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I don’t like how vague that was. _

_**Hunk3141** : Actually, didn’t you leave this morning wearing your uniform? You didn’t skip, did you? Lance, seriously, you can’t just skip work for this, man! You have to go to work. Your boss isn’t going to let you call off because of “lovesickness”! That isn’t a real sickness, Lance! It’s just a phrase! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Oh my God, I know! I was on my lunch break! We get an hour, remember? Can you guys stop grilling me about the completely wrong parts of this story for five seconds so I can get to the important parts?! _

 

* * *

 

 

He convinces himself that it doesn’t hurt his feelings when Keith barely offers him a glance. When their eyes meet momentarily, and he can feel the popping of electricity there, but it seems as though Keith does not.

He looks just as grouchy and tired as he did before—just as eager to hoist himself over the glass sneeze-guard that’s nearly twice his height and snap the neck of some unassuming customer—but he moves quickly and efficiently through the next order, and the one after that, until there’s only one final person standing between him and Lance.

Lance tries not to get too excited, tries not to allow himself to think that maybe Keith is in such a hurry because he’s eager to apologize for his little spelling mistake yesterday.

He tries to reason with himself that he’s nothing more to this guy than a random face in a big sea of customers that he floats through each day. That maybe, someday he can be more than that, but for now, he needs to make a name (or, at the very least, the correct name) for himself or Keith might never be able to pick him out in a crowd.

If he tries to consider his strengths here, he has to admit that not many of them will help him win over a total stranger who seems particularly determined not to be won over.

On one hand, there’s the extra cheese. No matter what Hunk might say, it’s undeniable that the cheese was some kind of special sign. He’s watched every sandwich that Keith’s made so far, paid extra attention to the way that his hands never falter before he gives them a normal amount of every serving. By now, he’s at least fairly confident that whatever happened yesterday was either a small mistake or a very purposeful attempt to get his attention.

On the other hand, Keith is beautiful. This is also undeniable, and he can’t imagine that anyone could ever have the gall to argue with that. He’s swimming in his too-large uniform for the second day in a row, moody and sharp-eyed and blithe to all of the excited hustle and bustle around him. He’s all high cheekbones and full, pouty lips. He’s smooth porcelain skin framed with thick, unruly dark hair. He’s picturesque even in his clown clothes, in the humiliating outfit that his job requires, in a way that Lance absolutely is not.

In a small moment of clarity, Lance snatches the hat from his head, desperately rubbing at his hair in a vain attempt to give it more volume. His uniform admittedly isn’t nearly as awful as Keith’s—just a baseball cap and a t-shirt donned with the “Sal’s Pizza” logos—but he wonders if Keith can smell the mozzarella sticks and the garlic bread all the way over the counter. He wonders if Keith will turn up his nose at a measly delivery boy when he’s bringing in the big bucks that maybe only a clerk at a Deli can ever hope to rake in.

The person ahead of Lance orders three sandwiches. Keith doesn’t say anything and he still doesn’t respond nearly as snidely as Lance thinks that he might want to, but there’s a twitch at the corners of his lips that doesn’t elude Lance’s attention either.

And he wonders—miserably, pitifully, desperately—if Keith might be more impressed with him if he’d worn his favorite jacket in here, despite the heat outside and how dorky everyone else at school seems to think that it is.

The fellow members of his major had gotten together to design them early in the year—the t-shirts and the bags, the hoodies and jackets, keychains, book sleeves, every little trinket that he could imagine. Lance had been so excited by the mere idea of belonging to something so exclusive without even trying that he’d bought one of everything—and a few t-shirts to send home to his family, for good measure.

A camera symbol, a speech bubble, and a tiny cartoon cellphone— ”Class of 2020: the voices of tomorrow” —Pidge had teased him about it relentlessly, and Hunk had commented on the fact that it didn’t exactly get their message across very clearly, all things considered.

“They didn’t even put our school’s name on there, dude,” he’d said critically, raising an eyebrow as he’d eyed one of Lance’s new shirts, “I mean, it’s cool and all, but are other people even going to know what it’s for? Isn’t the whole point of majoring in Media to learn to, you know, get your point across in a concise way?”

But maybe Keith would understand it, maybe he would be more easily impressed. Or, at the very least, maybe it would seem mysterious and elite enough that he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to ask.

“Oh, it’s you again.”

The world screeches to a halt. For a split second, Lance feels himself falling into the slow motion and the molasses of yesterday’s emotional time-warp, feels himself clamming up as he peers up to finally meet Keith’s molten eyes.

And he doesn’t know if he finds a small smile there, or if it’s a trick of his own romantic imagination and the harsh light above them, but he likes to think that Keith is happy to see him. That maybe, since he recognizes his face, he’d taken more away from their conversation yesterday than the realization that Lance had to have been the rudest person who he’d ever had the misfortune of serving.

“You’d better be careful, or you might become a regular.”

Of all of the things that he expected to hear from Keith today, a joke wasn’t one of them. He feels, briefly, as though he’s floating just outside of his body, as though, if Hunk were here to pinch him, maybe he’d jolt awake and find himself still dreaming of everything that “could be” in the safety and comfort of his bed.

But there’s a line queuing up behind him, and Keith is raising a brow. This is real, it’s not a dream, and the unfortunate reality of the situation is that he’s messing things up just like he messed them up yesterday, only more immediately.

“U-uh, yeah.” his tongue is fat and rubbery in his mouth. His cheeks feel white-hot. “The… the sandwich was good, so uh, I wanted… another one.”

Keith’s nod is a jerky and unsure. He pauses for a moment, as though he’s going to ask something—maybe “What in the world is wrong with you?” or “Do I need to call an ambulance?” —before he grabs a loaf of bread from the cabinet behind him and begins cutting it.

“Same as yesterday?” he asks.

Lance feels himself floating above the crowd.

Keith remembers him.

He remembers his order.

He’s joking and he’s smiling, and he remembers him .

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : That’s actually kind of cute. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I told you. Neither of you knuckleheads believed me, but I told you! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : No, no, not Keith. I mean you. A clerk remembers the guy who called his dead parents jerks the next day and smiles like he’s supposed to at his job, and suddenly it’s true love. It’s a little depressing, but still cute. _

_**Hunk3141** : Be nice, Pidge. It’s romantic! Like Romeo and Juliet! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You’re right, Hunk. Two lovers: drawn together by cheese, kept apart by a sneeze guard and Lance’s insatiable desire to always say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Through the death and destruction of modern-day college life and crappy minimum-wage jobs, somehow, they still manage to find each other… When Lance hears Keith’s romantic call of, “Lanceo, oh Lanceo, wherefore art thou Lanceo!”, he responds, romantically, “Deny thy dead parents and refuse thy hideous old man name!” _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Romeo doesn’t even say that part! And it is romantic, okay?! Not like “Romeo and Juliet” romantic, but when’s the last time that anyone gave either of you extra food, huh? When’s the last time that a cashier actually remembered you? Stop acting like this isn’t really weird! I’m onto something here, I just know it! It doesn’t even matter if you two romantic black holes believe me or not! _

 

* * *

 

 

He nods, only because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

His heart is lodged deep down in his throat, thrumming against his vocal cords, vibrating over his skin. He shoves his hands into his pockets, just to disguise how terribly they shake, and he tells himself that maybe this looks cool and enigmatic to Keith.

He’s a bad-boy who can’t be bothered to affirm things out loud. He cares so little about his order that he just lets Keith make anything.

He’s accommodating in how little he cares about any of this. He’s so blithe and unbridled by nervousness or doubt. He’s a slick dude who goes with the flow—like foam riding on the ocean tide, like dandelion seeds pulled from the stalk by the breeze, floating off on distant adventures with no regard for their destination.

It’s a lot to hope for, but he hopes for it anyway. That Keith is thinking of all of the same metaphors, that he finds him just as charming and alluring as he finds Keith.

That Keith wonders about him, in the same way that Keith has him wondering. That maybe, just this once, extra cheese isn’t just extra cheese, and he isn’t overthinking another small interaction and surely making a gigantic horse’s ass out of himself.

In all of his musing and daydreaming, he doesn’t miss the way that Keith pauses again. How his gloved fingers still just centimeters above Lance’s sandwich—above the thick slices of fresh chicken and the sizzling bacon, above the red tomatoes and the earthy green leaves of spinach—before he grabs for the cheese.

Two slices, then three, then…

Four.

Another extra slice, just like yesterday. Keith clears his throat before he reaches for the sauce. Lance chooses to believe that he’s embarrassed, that he realizes, finally, that he’s been caught in the act.

The rest of the transaction is a blur. He’d like to tell Pidge and Hunk later that he had something clever to say at the end, that he was somehow able to make up for his blunder yesterday, but he only gives Keith his cash and accepts his change.

He nods dumbly when Keith tells him to have a good day, forgets that the entire point of coming back today was to tell Keith that he got his name wrong, until he’s already pushing his way through the door under the jingling bells, and Keith is swamped with a wave of new customers.

He’d go back, but he only has fifteen minutes left of his break, and two blocks to ride his bike until he gets back to work.

But maybe the affirmation is enough for now. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.

The sloppy writing on his sandwich says “Landon” today. And maybe this is also a game. Maybe Keith is just messing with him.

But the sandwich tastes good anyway.

Like chicken and bacon and melted cheese. Like true love at first sight and the beautiful beginnings of fate.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : What exactly does “true love” taste like, Lance? Are you sure you weren’t just tasting their special sauce? _

_**Hunk3141** : Dude, maybe you should change your screen name to “Keith Loves Langdon And Lucas” instead? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Alright, haha, very funny! I’m not going to keep telling you guys about this if you’re just gonna keep being rude about it. _

_**Hunk3141** : Dude, you know it’s out of love! And we’re worried about you, okay?! We just don’t wanna see you get your heart broken again, or worse… like what happened in high school… _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay! I get it! We don’t have to talk about that! And it’s not even going to be like that, got it? I’m telling you, this is the real deal, and I can prove it! Just you wait! _

_—-LadiesLoveLance Has Left The Chat—-_

_**Hunk3141** : Man, he could at least stick around long enough to ask us how our days went… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You know how it is, Hunk. “There is only one happiness in life—to love and get extra cheese.” _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I felt the need to mention that I used to work at a sandwich place and I gotta say… Keith shouldn’t be putting those veggies on before he puts on the cheese. You gotta put the cheese right on the meat, okay? That way it melts better. But I feel like ingredient placement probably is probably the least of Lance’s worries at this point…
> 
> Also, Pidge’s quote at the end is a really corny play on a George Sand quote: “There is only one happiness in this life, to love and be loved.” 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it! See you next week!


	3. Manchego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: Hot ham and cheese, a side order of broccoli soup, and a shocking moment of clarity.

“Lance?”

“Lance!”

“ _ Lance _ ! ”

Lance looks up from his phone abruptly, elbows on the steel surface of the prep table, his knees locked and numb as he straightens himself up clumsily.

His boss is giving him an incredulous look—his mouth cocked up at one side, his brows low and drawn together in the middle. He’s a big guy, loud enough and grumpy enough that he intimidates Lance without even trying.

And considering how airheaded Lance has been lately, he realizes far too late that maybe he’s given the guy more than enough reasons to finally write him up or fire him.

With shaky hands, he shoves his phone in his pocket. It vibrates two times—one after the other. Surely, he thinks, Pidge has read his long ramble about his most recent trip to the Deli and she’s picking apart every aspect of his story.

Lately, it seems as though even she’s gotten a little bit too involved in this conspiracy. And maybe she’s messing with him, maybe she thinks that all of this is some kind of joke.

But he knows how much she likes mysteries, and he knows how much she likes digging her grubby little fingers into other people’s business.

“You already make those deliveries, or are you taking another lunch break?”

Lance straightens his posture even further. He’s practically standing on the tips of his toes.

“Y-yeah, I uh… I ran two of them, but the third isn’t supposed to be delivered until 2:30, and it’s only 1:45, so…”

He lets that sentence fizzle out and hang there. Sal stares at him for a long time, hands on his hips. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, twitchy in a way that Lance has grown to recognize over time—a way that means that he’s trying to quit smoking for the third time this month, so his patience is somehow even thinner than it might be on a normal day.

Great, he thinks. Just his luck.

“I’m sure you could find a better use of your time than texting your buddies, right? Maybe clean those elbow marks off of my prep table, huh?”

With that, Sal thankfully leaves him alone—hobbling off to terrorize one of the pizza makers or the clerks. Bounding away to spread unhappiness and misfortune wherever he may go.

Lance wonders briefly—selfishly, stupidly—if that hunky Shiro guy ever yells at Keith like this. If he antagonizes him for checking his phone during slow periods, or chastises him for not being chipper enough when he, himself, has the personality and flair of a greasy old napkin.

And he wonders, fetching his phone out of his pocket and making an executive decision to head out now and take his sweet, sweet time delivering the last pizza of his shift, if Keith has his own group chat that he regularly visits during times like these in the Deli.

Or if maybe, he only texts whichever guy or girl was lucky enough that he cared enough about them to get their name right the first time.

_ “That kind of circular thinking is dangerous and unproductive, Lance.”  _ is what he knows that Pidge would tell him right now, if she were here and she somehow knew exactly what was running through his head.  _ “Don’t tell yourself, “He doesn’t like me because he doesn’t know my name, therefore I should never tell him my name”. Instead, you tell him your name, and when he still doesn’t like you, it’s completely out of your hands.” _

He groans pitifully, flipping idly through a few different apps on his phone as he makes his way to the oven to pick up his pizza. It’s under the heat lamps now, and one of the chefs is leaning through the gap between the kitchen and the counter, flirting with one of the clerks.

He wonders what it would take to have that kind of confidence—to be able to flirt with a cute person without getting too tongue-tied or saying the wrong thing. He wonders, at which point, someone like Keith could make it so obvious that he wanted to be flirted with that Lance could only blame himself for not actually going for it.

Once he collects the pizza, warm in its cardboard box, he zips it up in the delivery bag. He pushes through the “employee only” door and steps out into the back alley, fumbles with his keys in his pocket with too-full hands before unlocking his bike from the rack.

He sets the pizza safely over the handlebars of his bike and begins the short ride to his destination. He wonders if he should have checked Pidge’s messages before he left.

He won’t think about it until the end of his shift, nearly an hour later.

And he’ll practically hemorrhage at the idea that he could have been dumb enough to ignore such juicy intel for so long.

Because Pidge comes through for him, just like she always does. She’ll laugh at him later for claiming that her “advanced hacking skills” allowed her to collect so much dirt. She’ll tell him that he could have done all of this himself, that he really needs to “up his stalker game” if he ever wants to make it in the world of modern dating.

Pidge has never dated anyone, of course, and he isn’t really sure if she’s ever been interested in anyone at all.

But she still comes through with valuable information, so he can’t bring himself to question any of it.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I did some digging on that “Shiro” guy from the Deli. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : “Takashi Shirogane”, Class of 2014. He graduated with a Business Degree. His parents own the Deli, but no one online seems to have ever seen them there. I think “Shiro” basically runs the place. _

 

* * *

 

 

She’s sent him the link to a Facebook page, which he’s too afraid to click until late in the night—long after Hunk has finished his video chat with Shay, long after he’s tucked himself in and began snoring loudly across the room.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Looks like he’s dating some girl named “Allura”. Didn’t you say that Keith mentioned an Allura last time that you were there? So I guess he either met her there or got her a job. I looked through his friend’s list and there’s no one in there named Keith. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Lance, I think your dreamboat is a ghost.  _

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro’s smiling face in his profile picture captures Lance’s attention for so long that he begins to see the outline of it on the back of his eyelids.

Like the wallpaper burned into the screen of an old computer monitor, he starts to think that it might be stuck there for the rest of his life.

In the photo, Shiro is standing, shirtless, in front of a wide, circular pool. There’s a girl clinging to his arm, who is tagged in the photo as “Allura”. They’re posed like swimsuit models in a catalogue. She’s holding a half-empty martini glass in one hand. He’s wrapping his chiseled arms around her waist.

They look happy together—like two people in a dream. Like the protagonists at the end of a romantic movie. He isn’t entirely sure what sorts of emotions this picture inspires in him at first—why he feels a pinch in his chest, why he feels so hollow. Why, for a mere moment, he imagines how he might smile in a photo like this with Keith, and if he could ever be as happy with another person as the two of them look together.

There’s a strange bitterness that accompanies that—a weird feeling that Keith should be nestled somewhere in that picture too, even though he has no reason to believe that either of them are that close, aside from one odd conversation in the middle of a lunch rush.

But the feeling persists, as he continues to snoop through Shiro’s photo albums. As he realizes, with disdain, that Keith isn’t in a single one of his pictures.

Even in the very few shots of Shiro wearing that same handsome grin in his work uniform, gesturing proudly at some random lunch special on the chalkboard menu. Even in a group photo with a few other employees and Shiro’s arm slung dutifully around Allura’s shoulders.

He starts to think that maybe Pidge was right about Keith—maybe he is a ghost. Or maybe that exchange between him and Shiro really wasn’t all that he thought that it was, and the two of them care about each other so little that Shiro hasn’t bothered to even include him in his work pictures.

He flips through the different photos so many times that he starts to memorize their order. There are nearly a dozen pictures of Shiro at this pool party, followed by a short series of blurry shots at a bonfire at dusk. There are pictures of Shiro petting a fluffy golden retriever, pictures of Shiro and Allura huddled close together at a coffee shop in nearly identical sweaters.

But still, in three albums and nearly a hundred pictures, there’s no Keith.

Of course, Shiro is a handsome guy, but that’s not why Lance can’t stop looking at his profile. He’s perfect, sure, in that “hunky jock who does charity on the weekends” kind of way—and if some people are into that sort of thing, sure, fine. More power to them, he guesses, but he’s definitely no Keith.

He doesn’t exude that same intriguing  carelessness. He seems, from the myriad of tagged photos from athletic events and frou frou dinner parties, as though every hair on his head is always neatly in place. As though every wrinkle in his clothing needs to be smoothed out at all times. He seems as though he’s never pulled an all-nighter even once in his life, as though he wakes up every morning without bedhead and always remembers to brush his teeth before he goes to sleep.

And he doesn’t seem like he hates anyone—not like Keith, who seems as though he despises the entire world.

His statuses are all about the restaurant and different local events. There are nearly a dozen different people who share things on his timeline every week.

He’s almost too good, Lance thinks. Almost unreal. He’s far too clean to ever be associated with someone who cares so little about everything as Keith.

For some reason, while the perfect guy with the perfect abs and the perfect, beautiful, smiling girlfriend hanging off of his meaty arm should definitely be the kind of guy who possesses Lance’s undying affections—somehow, he spends an entire lecture mulling over how a guy like Keith could possibly fit into this guy’s life.

It’s hard to convince himself that they’re only coworkers. Not a single person at Lance’s job has ever remembered when his breaks are supposed to be, and they definitely don’t care enough about them to argue with him about coming back early.

Granted, he usually wanders in a good five minutes late, and never even a minute before it’s over—but isn’t that also the point? Why would Keith care if Shiro was getting busy up front? Why would he care that Shiro’s girlfriend couldn’t figure out the meat grinder?

And why did it seem as though the two of them were having a private moment back then? Why did Lance suddenly feel as though he’d stumbled in on something far too intimate, while it should have been a standard interaction between coworkers?

He reminds himself of circular thinking. He knows that convincing himself that something is true without any real proof will do nothing but hurt his progress in the end.

As it is, it’s been five days since he’s visited the Deli—and he wonders if Keith’s missed him. He wonders, if somewhere between comically misspelling customers’ names and aggressively wiping down the tables, if Keith has paused for a mere moment to lament the absence of Lance’s face in the endless sea of strangers who he serves.

He wonders if Keith is wondering about him too—as he stares at Shiro’s smiling face on his profile, scrolls down to read the generic encouraging words that he’s pasted in his description.

_ “Difficult roads often lead to beautiful destinations.” _

He wonders which roads will someday lead him to Keith.

His professor is saying something about catering advertisements to specific demographics. She switches one slide to another, turns to face the class and suddenly, she meets Lance’s eyes.

And he fumbles in embarrassment, shoving his phone into his lap and pretending that he’s taking notes. For a moment, he forgets about Shiro’s idyllic, smiling face and all of his flawless, model-esque friends. He forgets about how it might feel to live life in Shiro’s shoes—to meet someone like Keith effortlessly, to be loved by everyone who he meets.

The class wraps up eventually. He gathers his books and finally digs his phone out from between his thighs.

When he turns it back on and opens the browser, he nearly drops it on the floor. He nearly throws it as hard as he can at the tile and stomps on it until it’s nothing but splintered plastic and  _ broken glass. _

_ “Friend request sent to  _ **_Takashi Shirogane_ ** _ ” _

_ “New Message (1)” _

_ “  _ **_Takashi Shirogane_ ** _ : I’m sorry, do I know you from somewhere?” _

This is exactly why he could never be someone like Shiro.

This is exactly why Keith will never, in any instance—in any alternate universe, in any lifetime, in any reality or daydream or random circumstance—ever think that he’s a person worthy of being called by the right name.

This is why he’s been so afraid to go back to the Deli.

It’s exactly this sort of thing that stops him from trying, when trying only leads to adding strangers on social media, when surely Shiro’s already combed his profile and witnessed the endless list of childish pages that he still can’t figure out how to unlike.

Surely, he’s already shown Lance’s profile to Keith, and the two of them are having a nice laugh at his expense.

Surely, Keith is thinking to himself right now, _ ‘Wow, and to think I used to give that guy extra cheese! Bullet officially dodged!’ _

 

* * *

 

 

_**LadiesLoveLance** : That’s it, time to die. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : It was great knowing you, guys. Goodbye forever. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : ??? _

_**Hunk3141** : You okay, buddy? _

_**Hunk3141** : ...Lance? _

_**Hunk3141** : LANCE?!?! _

 

* * *

 

 

It’s an entire week later before Lance gathers the nerve to visit the  _ Shirogane Delicatessen _ again.

He’d spent the majority of the next weekend running pizzas at work—flying so quickly from order to order that his calves still ache from peddling his bike so hard. He’d had a test the following Tuesday. Regrettably, in the class that he’d spent so much time adamantly ignoring in favor of Shiro’s Facebook profile. He’d spent the majority of Monday studying. He’d had caffeine-crash Tuesday evening, after pulling a monstrous all-nighter in order to cram for the test, and now, finally, he feels as though he’s well-rested and fresh-faced enough that maybe he can face Keith again.

And maybe this time he’ll give him his real name.

Or, at the very least, he’ll be able to order something without making an absolute ass out of himself.

He still isn’t entirely sure what he’ll do if he sees Shiro again. After a panicked frenzy and fifteen missed calls from Hunk, he’d finally told the two of them exactly what he’d done. Pidge had been incoherent then—laughing so hard at his misfortune and stupidity that she’d had to mute herself during the group call. Hunk had been more sympathetic, but neither of them had offered him any decent advice about what to do.

In the end, he’d taken the coward’s route. He’d blocked Shiro and accepted the loss of being able to look at his photos. He’d only barely had enough decency and self-respect to stop himself from making a fake profile just to do more digging.

And maybe it was for the best, because he hadn’t seen even a hint of Keith in any of those pictures, no matter how hard he’s stared at the out-of-focus edges or the fuzzy faces in the backgrounds. He would have looked misplaced there anyway—among those happy faces. Among the straight, white teeth, the clean, carefully styled hair, and the flawlessly manufactured grins. Among all of the nice people in their nice, pastel clothes and pristine, tastefully decorated suburban homes.

He isn’t really sure what Keith likes to do during his time off, but it seems to Lance that he doesn’t really have a lot of it to begin with.

He can’t imagine him sitting at any of those barbeques or brunches. He can’t envision him getting dolled up for much of anything—taming the wild beast of his hair and putting on a shirt that actually fits him. He can’t see him being patient enough to make small-talk or eat all of those tiny hors d'oeuvres with the little color-tipped toothpicks sticking out of the tops.

It’s not a particularly fair assessment, because he knows that he’s only seen Keith a couple of times now, and always while he’s at work. He doesn’t even know what his street clothes look like, who his friends are, or where he likes to hang out.

For the first time since he met Keith, he’s faced with the realization of how crazy all of this might sound. If maybe, someone didn’t understand the whole concept of “love at first sight”, they might think that he’s a moronic stalker who’s putting some random stranger on a pedestal without really understanding them at all.

And maybe that’s true, he really isn’t sure. Maybe he’s so entranced by Keith’s disposition that he wouldn’t be able to accept it even if he’d seen Keith in the background of one of those dinner party pictures, smiling the same airy smile as everyone else, drinking and laughing and wrapping his arm around some pretty girl.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he doesn’t pick it up. He knows that it’s Hunk, trying desperately to talk him out of this again. He knows that it’s Pidge making jokes in their private chat room—pretending that somehow he isn’t even more serious about this whole thing than he’s ever been about any of his other crushes before it.

Before he’d taken off—when he’d stopped by his and Hunk’s dorm room to drop off his bag and change into an outfit that might catch Keith’s attention—Hunk had swiveled around in his desk chair, fresh off of a video chat with Shay and positively beaming from ear to ear.

He’d sobered slightly when he’d realized that Lance wasn’t staying for long. He’d given Lance that same mournful expression that he always has, ever since they were kids, when he’s gotten the idea in his head that Lance is getting himself into a predicament that he thinks won’t end well.

Granted, usually he’s right, but Lance is determined that he can’t be right forever.

And this time, he’s sure that luck and simple statistics are on his side.

“You’re not seriously going back there, are you? After everything that’s happened?” Hunk had asked him.

He’d wrung his hands together anxiously, sitting up straight in his chair and knitting his brows close together. He’d pushed out his bottom lip, puppy-eyed and pitiful as he’d grappled with some kind of excuse that might talk Lance out of leaving again.

And finally, when nothing had worked, he’d told Lance, “Me and Pidge are just worried about you! After what happened in high school, you know, we just don’t want to see you get hurt like that again. Not to mention how humiliating it was! I mean, you almost switched schools, remember? We—we just don’t wanna see you go down that road again.”

It was a low blow, and maybe Hunk had known that. It was the only thing that he could have possibly said that he’d known would stop Lance in his tracks—at least long enough that maybe he’d thought that Lance would think through everything and reconsider.

“That’s not going to happen again, Hunk! Can you please keep your big nose out of my business just this once and just—just talk to your stupid girlfriend some more or something?!”

Lance regrets how loud his voice had cracked around them when he’d responded. He regrets the way that the sound of it had made Hunk recoil as though he’d been hit. He’ll apologize later for insulting Shay, and he’ll reassure Hunk that yes, of course he still likes her. He’ll tell Hunk that he doesn’t have a big nose, and that he knows that Hunk’s just trying to look out for him, that it comes from a well-meaning place, that he appreciates it more than it could ever annoy him.

But it’s been years since everything that happened in high school, and both Hunk and Pidge still act like it’s a sore subject. They still tip-toe around it, as though it’s a perpetual glaring problem that won’t ever go away until they sit down and have a teary-eyed heart-to-heart about it.

He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

Not right now, not ever again.

Not while he’s pushing open the door to the Deli and searching for Keith’s face behind the counter.

And Keith is there, because of course he is. How could Lance ever be worried that maybe he’d decided to take a day off and enjoy his youth somewhere that doesn’t smell like bacon and freshly baked bread?

He’s wiping down the counter top when Lance walks in—and he doesn’t look up from this task, even as he throws out a bored greeting and raises a lazy hand in some kind of sarcastic half-wave that might piss Lance off if he didn’t look so beautiful while he’s doing it.

Lance doesn’t go to the counter immediately, because his heart is sputtering so desperately in his chest that he worries that he might suddenly overheat and shut down. For once in his miserable life, he decides to cool off and think things through before he does something stupid that he’ll later regret.

And maybe it’s because he still can’t stop thinking about Hunk—about what he’d said and how worried he is. Maybe he’s allowed himself to get so paranoid about some stupid prank that was played on him in his youth that he’s finally learned his lesson.

Maybe he just needs to stop trusting people so much—that they’ll like him as much as he likes them, that they aren’t going to hurt him.

That they don’t just consider him to be a naive rube who will go along with everything that they say as long as they bat their pretty eyelashes enough.

But he can’t shake the thought that Keith isn’t like that, even though he’s painfully aware that he really doesn’t know him at all. He just doesn’t seem to care enough—about anything, really. He doesn’t seem like the type of person who would waste time on juvenile pranks, and he doesn’t seem like the sort of person who could keep a secret for very long, because surely, someone like Keith would think that it was a useless waste of his own efforts and resources.

To Lance, the Keith that he’s become smitten with is more pragmatic. He makes sandwiches with quick, practiced ease. He writes names on his orders that are just close enough that he can get away with pretending that he’s misheard. He doesn’t mess around with silly greetings or the sorts of pleasantries that weigh down many conversations. He’s real from the get-go. He’s the sort of person, Lance thinks, who would tell you right away if he didn’t care for you.

He’s not a doll-eyed girl stringing boys along for fun. He’s not a hungry jock, constantly vigilant for the next “dead meat”. He’s not like the people who Lance grew up with. He’s not dangerous in all of the same ways.

Regardless, he still needs to regain his composure and plot out of plan of action. He just needs to take a minute to inspect the chalkboard menu and scope out today’s specials and cute cartoons—because that mystery also isn’t going to solve itself either, and all of this somehow feels connected in a way that he still doesn’t quite understand yet.

Shiro and Keith, the adorable cartoons, the extra cheese, the beautiful Allura who they keep cooped up in the back—it’s a mountainous pile of small mysteries all stacked together in a tiny Deli. It’s a conspiracy that he and Pidge have conjured from nothing, surely, but this place is all that he can think about anymore.

Today’s special is ham and cheese with a bowl of broccoli soup. He wrinkles his nose at the thought of it, especially considering the heat outside. He tells himself that ordering the same sandwich a third time really can’t hurt, considering that maybe, if he settles on a “usual”, Keith might actually start to remember him.

The cartoons littering the menu seem a little rushed today, but despite the sloppiness and the smudges, they’re still just as charming as ever. There’s a chubby-cheeked pig next to a grumpy-looking goat, surrounded by plump, bubbly hearts. There’s a round speech-bubble at the opposite end of the board, and in that familiar, loopy font, the text inside reads, “15 days until fall!”

He’s thinking about all of this—about how much time he has left until winter break, when he’ll take the bus two hours away and spend a much-needed break at home. How he’ll be away from the Deli and from Keith for an entire three weeks until the Spring semester begins.

He thinks about how he still hasn’t made any new friends yet this semester, and he wonders if that’s really so bad. If maybe Pidge and Hunk are the best people for him anyway, and he shouldn’t be so greedy, shouldn’t spend so much time mourning all of the parties that he’ll surely never be invited to.

He’s thinking about the warmth of summer fading out into the cool of fall—about finally being able to wear his new media-major jacket, about what Keith might say and how much he’ll definitely swoon when he realizes what sort of guy he’s been giving out freebies to.

And he’s so caught up in all of these thoughts that he doesn’t notice when Keith stops wiping the counter. He doesn’t feel those dark eyes watching him, doesn’t notice the small upward turn of a smile on Keith’s lips until it’s far too late.

Because when Keith calls out to him, it feels as though the world around him is crashing blindly through space. As though it’s thrown itself out of orbit, ricocheting off of Venus into Mercury, knocking everything around him out of place in slow, agonizing motion.

“It’s Logan, right? Are you waiting for someone, or do you wanna order?”

The smile is what stops his brain.

He can almost hear the dial-up noises buzzing in his mind as he waits, painfully slow, for his thoughts to stop sputtering about and finally make sense of all of this.

He’s totally blanking out here, and his tongue is far too fat and useless in his mouth to do much of anything for far too long. Keith raises a brow as he turns to wash his hands. Lance’s shaky knees barely work long enough to move him forward—only one step, then two—and he’s still standing a good six feet too far away from the counter to order without yelling.

But he does one thing right, and he isn’t even sure how he manages to pull it off.

It’s a fluke, he’s sure. Just dumb luck.

He clears his throat, drags a trembling hand through his hair and forces his gaze to lift from the tiles between his feet to meet Keith’s eyes.

“It’s—It’s Lance, actually. My name… it’s Lance.”

Keith’s smile falters for a mere moment, but then, miraculously, it spreads out wider.

Lance feels as though the restaurant is bathed in gold. He feels as though he’s floating three inches above the ground. Keith’s smile is so beautiful that he can barely breathe, so open and so welcoming and so preciously _just for him_.

“Sorry,” Keith tells him, with a small, bashful laugh that sends a thousand butterflies fluttering desperately within his belly, “I’m kind of bad with names.”

If he’d had even an ounce of doubt before, Keith immediately obliterates it.

His heart is hammering rapidly against his ribcage. His skin is hot and tingly. He’s boneless and rubbery, floating aimlessly in a vast ocean of Keith’s smile and Keith’s laughter—in the idea that Keith will remember his name now, that he’ll even know it at all.

That Keith remembered his face.

And it has to be love, he tells himself.

This weightless, invigorating, terrifying feeling.

It can only be love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I gotta start this off by saying that I’m so sorry for not updating without any notice for like… the last two weeks. I had this whole “very short hiatus” announcement planned out, but my very busy week ended up starting so much sooner than I was expecting, so I kinda… fumbled the opportunity to actually let you guys know that I wasn’t going to be updating until this week. 
> 
> As it is, if you ever wanna check up on story progress and whatnot, I usually post notice [here on tumblr](http://curionabang.tumblr.com/tagged/rambling-about-l&c), and sometimes also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/MothIsland). 
> 
> Anyway, thanks to everyone for being so patient, and I’ll see you guys again next week!


	4. Feta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: First (unofficial) dates, confusing new beginnings, and a foot just the right size for Lance’s mouth.

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : So, let me get this straight: you’re sitting in there right now? And you’re wasting time messaging us while you should be talking to him because…? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well, it’s not like I can just go up there and push all of the other customers out of the way, Pidge! I have to be a gentleman about this! _

_**Hunk3141** : Yeah Pidge, come on. Be reasonable. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Okay, fine, whatever. But you actually told him your name this time? And he remembered it? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Read it and weep, Pidge-for-brains. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Wow, clever. _

 

* * *

 

 

Discreetly, Lance snaps a picture of the writing on his sandwich—his heart fluttering as he catches sight of his name, his _ real name _ , scrawled in Keith’s chicken-scratch. He feels a swell of pride as he sends it to the chat, gloating silently as he watches the little “typing” ellipses animating next to Pidge’s screen name.

There’s no way that she can deny it now, he tells himself. There’s no way that either of them could possibly still think that this is a bad idea when obviously, Keith wasn’t getting his name wrong on purpose. He’s just forgetful, that’s all. He just sees so many people each day, and it would be completely unreasonable to expect for his brain to keep working at a hundred percent when Lance can’t even count the amount of times that he zones out during his dinky four-hour long shifts at  _ Sal’s _ .

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Okay, but what about the cheese? Did you still get extra? _

_**Hunk3141** : Yeah dude, the cheese is supposed to be like… the key here, right? Extra cheese equals extra love in this romantic equation or something? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I was getting there, guys! Geez, just let me enjoy my name on the paper here for a sec, can’t you? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You can look at your name all you want, Lance! You can take the paper home and hang it on your wall for all I care! You get to read your name all the time, but you only get extra cheese, what, three times now…? _

_**Hunk3141** : Lance, she didn’t mean that thing about bringing the paper home and hanging it on the wall. _

_**Hunk3141** : Please don’t bring the paper home, Lance. _

_**Hunk3141** : Lance, seriously! We’re already in trouble for leaving out that pizza box for a few days last week! The room monitor is not gonna be happy if he comes in next time and sees some sauce-covered deli paper hanging on the bulletin board! I’m pretty sure he’d refer us to a shrink or something… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Awww, but it’s a keepsake, Hunk! He can wear it on his tux during their wedding! He can have it bronzed and put it on their mantle as a symbol of their undying love! _

_**Hunk3141** : Pidge, seriously, don’t egg him on! This isn’t funny, dude! _

 

* * *

 

 

“Is there something wrong with the food?”

Lance nearly jumps straight out of his skin.

He feels his soul barely tethered to his earthly body—feels his spirit leaping from his flesh for a split second as a wonderful, beautiful, but far too familiar and far too close for comfort voice pokes through his concentration, just behind him.

His chair squeaks loudly against the floor. He shoots straight up in his seat so quickly that, for a moment, his head swims.

And when he finally calms down enough to turn around, to face his fears and risk looking like an idiot if this is all some kind of elaborate hormone-fueled dream—his breath catches in the deepest reaches of his throat.

His tongue feels like wet lead in his mouth. The rubbery, floaty sensation floods back into all of his limbs again, and just as quickly as he’d stiffened, he feels himself melting into an indecipherable pile of goo.

“I… I—w-what?”

All of his former eloquence is gone.

Keith is standing just under a foot behind him, leaning against the handle of a broom. One hip cocked out to the side, a hand pushing loose hair from his eyes. He’s taller now, as he towers over Lance in his seat. He’s a hundred feet high, at least—a statue of a god of a gorgeous man, reaching up into the sky and tearing down the sun to light his ethereal smile.

Which is lopsided, and maybe a little snide. But Lance’s heart ricochets desperately within his chest nonetheless.

This is the first time that they’ve talked away from the counter.

This is the first time that Keith has reached out to him unprovoked.

“You keep messing with your sandwich but not eating it. Is it okay?”

It takes a monumental amount of inner strength to pull his eyes away from Keith, but somehow, he perseveres. He drags his gaze from Keith’s sudden, pensive frown, to the sandwich growing only colder in its paper wrappings on the table. He’d completely forgotten about actually eating it, in his haste to report the news to Pidge and Hunk.

And for the life of him, he would have never imagined that Keith would actually care if he ate the sandwich, or just threw it in the garbage on his way out.

He doesn’t know how to respond without giving too much away, however, so he sits very still—very quiet, very careful not to move too fast or allow his jumbled thoughts to pour out of his slackened mouth before he has a moment to come up with some kind of plan.

And for a moment, it seems as though maybe simple denial will work—as though somehow Keith will decide that it’s not worth asking any further questions and move on to something more important.

Like writing down his number on one of Lance’s napkins, or admitting that the extra cheese has been a ploy to get his attention all along.

No such luck, unfortunately. Keith sighs impatiently, shifting his weight from one hip to the other and tipping back his head. He seems to be composing himself. Lance can almost see the numbers counting down slowly in his brain—the metaphorical steam simmering down as it threatens to blow out of his ears. The cartoonish veins swelling at his temples before fading away.

“Okay, look,” Keith huffs, pausing for another moment, seemingly in order to compose himself even further, “I’m supposed to ask people if they’re enjoying their food while I’m out here, so… Could you just nod and pretend that you like it? Or I could make another one—I don’t know, whatever you want. But please just let me do my job for once?”

“Y-yeah, it’s fine, I was just, uh…” Any idea of where that sentence might have been going is completely lost on him now. His thoughts are whipping past him so quickly that his head spins. Trying to focus on anything but Keith standing so close to him proves completely impossible. “I was… just, um… taking pictures of it, for… my food blog.”

Oh, good lord in heaven.

Please,  _ please _ have mercy on his miserable soul.

Even Hunk would be howling at him right now, if he ever found out about any of this. And he won’t—absolutely, never, as long as Lance lives. Of all of the humiliating stumbles along this twisted road of romance that he’s shamelessly spilled to the two of them, he’ll never, ever tell Hunk that he used his stupid hobby to save his own skin instead of coming up with something that sounded so much cooler and so much less… like Hunk.

Keith raises a brow, but he shrugs nonetheless, pushing himself off of the broom handle and sweeping idly in small circles without moving his feet. It seems as though he wants to say something, but he’s clasping his mouth firmly closed. His lips are tinged pink, in the most heavenly shade that Lance has ever had the pleasure of seeing. He chews on them when he’s thinking too hard, Lance can tell. He finds himself drifting off for a mere moment, imagining how it might feel to run his tongue over all of those tiny indentations.

Keith’s scuffing his feet against the floor as he moves about, only slightly—straying mere inches from Lance’s table as though he can’t decide if he wants to end the conversation yet or not.

“You’re like the tenth food blogger we’ve had come in here,” Keith says finally, in a voice so feeble and quiet that it barely even sounds like the same Keith, “The food’s actually that good then, yeah?”

Lance’s heart sputters, missing nearly a dozen beats as he watches the flustered way in which Keith tries to play it cool.

So he cares what people think about the food.

So he’s flattered that Lance would come in here and take pictures of it.

Later on, when he recounts this conversation to Pidge and Hunk, he’ll inflate this scene so much that it almost doesn't even seem like the same situation. He’ll have stood abruptly from his chair, swooping forward and drawing Keith into his arms. Keith will have looked at him like a breathless damsel—pink-cheeked and frail, needy and so desperately in love.

He’ll tell Keith, in a voice so low and gravelly, so manly and sauve and every bit as graceful as he definitely isn’t in reality,  _ “Any nourishment crafted by your beautiful hands will be akin to the feasts of the Gods. Men shall weep at how unworthy they are of just one taste of your magnificent nutriment.” _

Okay, so maybe the reality might be better than his fantasy at times.

Pidge and Hunk drill that in just fine on their own when he recounts it, even though he’s well-aware of the fact that no one in their right mind would stick around after some weird, pseudo-intellectual bullshit like that.

In reality, he fumbles a lot more with his words. He also doesn’t quite meet Keith’s eyes. His palms are impossibly sweaty, gripped into tight fists in his lap. A shudder shakes through him as he talks, tongue-tied and still staving off his earlier headrush as he forces himself to capture Keith’s attention before this moment is gone too soon.

“Y-you know, uh… If your break’s soon, maybe, uh… I could do an interview or something—with… you, you know, for my blog?”

And Keith doesn’t swoon in quite the same way as his imaginary version does when he retells it. He doesn’t blush at all. In fact, he recoils slightly, furrowing his brows and barking a laugh, breathing in hard through his nose and pacing backward as though the mere suggestion of spending time being interviewed by someone like Lance is completely ridiculous.

“Look dude, I don’t know the recipe for the secret sauce, okay? If you wanna talk to my boss, he’ll be done with his lunch break in…” Keith cranes his neck to check the clock. “Ten minutes. He’s usually early. I can send him out here to talk to you instead.”

The idea of seeing this lie through to the end is tempting, at first. He doesn’t want to make an ass out of himself in front of Keith this early on—not while his name is so fresh in Keith’s memory. Not when the imprint that he leaves in Keith’s brain is still so malleable that he could possibly convince him that he’s anything but the awkward, lying, pathetic lovestruck loser that he actually is.

But then he thinks about Pidge’s texts awhile back—about how the owners of the Deli never seem to be around, but the manager always is.

The manager, who happens to be Takashi Shirogane, who happens to be the guy who he accidentally added on Facebook while he was trying to stalk him.

Who he ghosted unabashedly with no explanation, and he’s sworn to himself that seeing Keith might not even be worth facing that guy ever again.

“N-no, uh—” He’s sputtering again, flailing his arms wildly in the air. Keith backs away even further, his eyes widening as he jerks his head to the side, eyeing the door.

If life were a videogame, Lance can imagine his health bar depleting at record-speed. He’d fail this speech-check fantastically, so utterly, so miraculously that they’d print his name in all of the record books. He’d be a legendary failure, surely. He’d be the best loser in all of history, forever and ever, until the end of time.

“I-I just… I wanna talk to you, okay? I-I don’t even have a food blog, I just—I was taking a picture of my sandwich because I was excited that you got my name right!”

When they were kids, when he used to keep secrets, once he finally spilled his guts and bared it all, Pidge would always tell him,  _ “See, doesn’t that feel better? Doesn’t the truth truly set you free?” _

He used to agree with her, before he understood that she was being sarcastic. He’d never known a more nihilistic ten year old than Pidge, never known someone even his own age with enough wit and sarcasm that she could embarrass even the adults around her.

But even still, he has to say, she was totally wrong.

His cheeks burn hotter than they’ve ever burned before. Hotter than the undying light of Keith’s sunshine smile. Hotter than the pavement baking in the tail end of the summer outside. Hotter even than the sizzling bacon under the heat lamp in Keith’s prep table, than the freshly baked bread in the ovens, than the fiery trenches of Hell.

He feels like he’s melting here, under Keith’s confused gaze, in his own self-made humiliation. Stewing in the juices of his own carefully crafted downfall like some kind of deranged rotisserie chicken. He’s such an idiot. He’s such an awe-inspiring trainwreck.

This is the part where Keith laughs at him and walks away.

This is the part where someone finally calls him out on all of this questionable behavior, calls the police, gets a restraining order.

This is the part where all of his best-laid plans inevitably blow up in his face, all because he’s too stupid to converse like a normal person. All because he can never seem to socialize right in the face of someone so much prettier than surely, he deserves.

“My break starts when my boss gets back. It’s only fifteen minutes. You gonna be here that long?”

He’s hallucinating, but Keith’s lips move perfectly in-time with those dream-words. Keith moves just as awkwardly as Lance would expect of someone who just accepted an unspoken lunch date. He finally flushes, in reality and not just in an embellished retelling—and he looks to Lance expectantly afterward, as though somehow he’s in on Lance’s lucid fantasies and he honestly wants an answer even though none of this is real.

So Lance goes along with all of the madness, because he’s already come this far.

After Keith smiles one last lopsided smile, and finally begins sweeping the floor so much faster and more enthusiastically than before, Lance allows the reality of his situation to catch up to him.

He pinches himself, very, very hard, just for good measure.

And it hurts, just like nails digging into the tender skin of his inner arm should. It hurts in the way that pinching himself in his dreams never has before. And he realizes, with a terrible pounding in his chest,  a lurching of his stomach and all of its contents climbing straight into his throat, that Keith heard everything that he said, and he still agreed to spend his break with him.

He’s going to talk to Keith, face-to-face.

They’re going to eat together, maybe. They’re going to have a real conversation.

It takes everything within him not to bolt out of the Deli right as that realization sets in. All of his strength, all of his adoration, all of the interactions leading him up to this very moment in time—they’re barely enough to keep him rooted in his seat as the crushing weight of anxiety crawls under his skin and makes a home for itself there.

His hands tremble as he fetches his phone from the table. He’s shaking so hard that it takes twice as long to type.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Lance? Cheese? Hello? _

_**Hunk3141** : Oh my God, Pidge. I think Lance got too close. They took him out, Pidge. He got too close to the cheese-spiracy. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : All hope is lost! They’ve got him now, Hunk! What are we ever going to do without Lance! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Guys _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : GUYS _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : He’s alive! It’s a miracle! _

_**Hunk3141** : ...Or  is he?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh my God, Hunk, you’re right! It’s a set-up! It’s a body-snatcher! Quick, Lance, prove that you’re the real Lance! Say something Lance-like! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Guys, seriously, shut up! This is important! I told Keith that I was taking pictures of my sandwich and now he’s going to eat lunch with me! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Okay, well, absolutely none of that makes any sense, so it’s definitely the real Lance. Whew! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I’m not joking! He’s coming over here soon and I have no idea what to talk about! What do you talk about to someone who you like?! What do people even talk about?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : “Wow Keith, it’s such a beautiful day to have living parents and a not-ugly name! By the way, did you hear that I ghosted your boss? See, I was only cyber-stalking him because I thought that he was your boyfriend just because he covered your break, so it’s fine, right? By the way, your parents sure are still dead, aren’t they?” _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : PIDGE! I’M SERIOUS! _

_**Hunk3141** : Just ask about school or something, dude! Or like… those weird menu-cartoons that you keep talking about! Or just ask him about his job or something! Do you seriously not have any clue what small talk is? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I’ve known you guys my entire life! When would I ever need to talk to anyone else?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh dear lord, he’s hopeless. _

 

* * *

 

 

The empty chair across from him scrapes against the floor, and before Lance knows it—before he’s even prepared for it at all—Keith slips into that chair, setting a brown paper bag in front of him on the table and sending Lance a placid look.

“Are you fighting with your girlfriend or something? Your face is all red.”

Lance swallows thickly, slamming his phone down on the table with so much more force than he’d intended. To his credit, Keith doesn’t flinch or shy away. He doesn’t really seem surprised by it at all. He might be used to this by now, really—to the weird way that Lance can’t stop himself from acting around him. To the dramatics and the random outbursts, and all of the outlandish behavior that surely makes no sense to him.

_ ‘Something about this weirdness made him want to spend his break with you though.’ _

He isn’t sure why his brain chooses not to betray him now, but the thought instantly calms him down.

Keith is peeling open his paper bag, fumbling around inside of it and pulling out a single sandwich, sealed in its saran wrap. He unwraps it gingerly, picking the crust off of the edges and dropping them on the top of his bag. And only after he takes the first bite does he turn his gaze back to Lance’s slowly-cooling face.

Only then does Lance realize that he asked a question for which he probably still expects a response.

“N-no,” Lance chokes, picking at the cold edges of his sandwich nervously, “I… I don’t have a girlfriend—I-I mean, I’m not dating anyone right now.”

He grimaces as the words leave his mouth, but Keith doesn’t seem phased by it at all. He only takes another bite out of his sandwich, chewing boredly, and rolling the saran wrap and the pieces of crust into a ball before stuffing them back into the bag.

“It’s a waste of time,” Keith tells him simply, tearing off another corner of his sandwich and inspecting it for a moment, before popping it in his mouth, “Dating, I mean. Seems kind of stupid.”

Lance will swear later on that an evil spirit was lurking around the corner just before the following moment. He’ll swear that it swooped in just as he was opening his mouth to speak, as he was articulating a totally appropriate and acceptable reply to Keith’s statement, and it possessed him to say something so terrible that he barely has the strength to mention it in the group chat later on.

“So you’re more of a hook-up guy then? Just hit it and quit it? Walk of shame is the name of your game?”

At the very least, this seems to get a rise out of Keith. He’s owl-eyed and scandalized immediately, sitting straighter in his seat, gripping his sandwich so tightly in his fingers that the peanut butter and jelly spurts out of the edges.

When Lance noticed, all the way back when he first laid eyes on Keith, that he seemed just a few seconds away from decking someone at any given time, he’d never considered that maybe he’d actually be within arm’s reach. That he’d ever get close enough or be tactless enough to make that assertion a reality.

Instead of digging himself into an even deeper hole, he decides that maybe changing the subject might cool things down. He can practically feel Keith’s anger burning from across the table, can feel the prickles of the dagger-tips piercing his skin through Keith’s glare, and he knows that he only has one more chance to make this right before he’s heading back to his dorm with a black eye.

“S-so, uh… those drawings on the menu, they, uh… They’re pretty neat. I always kinda wondered who draws them every day.”

It’s so dumb, the way that those words tumble out of his mouth. Keith draws in a long breath, setting down the mangled remains of his sandwich and closing his eyes. Lance watches as the stress rolls away from his shoulders, as the cogs turn slowly in his head and it seems as though he’s manually cranking down the dial of his temper.

“My boss draws them.” Keith’s tone is manufactured calm. His sticky, jelly-slicked fingers drum against the table. “It’ll make him really happy when he hears that someone actually likes them. I think they’re kind of dumb.”

Keith takes a moment then to lick his lips and look around the table. Lance realizes just a little too late, as Keith seems to as well, that he didn’t bring a drink with him. Wordlessly, Lance pushes his cup across the table. They both stare at it for what feels like three eternities overlapping each other in agonizing slow-motion.

Finally, Keith snatches the cup away, taking a quick sip and muttering a quiet, albeit moody  _ “thanks _ ” .

“So that Shiro guy draws the cartoons?” Lance asks, disbelief washing through him, clearing away his embarrassment and his nervousness in place of sudden astonishment. “I didn’t think he was the type…”

Keith raises a single brow, wiping his fingers on his bag but offering nothing else in response.

Which turns out to be a bad thing, Lance only realizes moments later, when the lull in the conversation brings his nerves back tenfold, and he chooses to fill that quiet with needless babbling instead of keeping his big mouth shut while he’s still ahead.

“I-I mean, he just seems like kind of a meathead to me, you know? I guess I only saw him once, but I just expected a guy like that to be too busy like, bench-pressing the tables before you guys opened instead of drawing girly cartoons on the menu every morning.”

In hindsight, insulting a person who Keith has an ambiguous relationship with probably wasn’t the best idea in the world. Definitely not the best small-talk, or the most flirtatious comment that he has in his hefty arsenal.

But of course, in Lance’s long history of striking out, bad situations can only get worse.

And, of course , Keith is definitely no exception.

“Shiro’s my brother.”

It drops a weight just as dense, just as unbearably heavy into the pits of Lance’s belly as it might have if Keith had just chosen to reach across the table and slap him instead. It’s so simple—just three words, spoken in the dullest deadpan that he’s ever heard in his life.

But Keith’s glower returns, and the twitching returns, and that rage seems to have come back threefold—that fire burning so hot now that Lance can almost feel his sandwich reheating right in front of him.

“O-Oh, I guess… I guess that makes sense, uh, I really should have realized that… he’s your brother, I mean—”

“You mean what ?” Keith pushes himself back from the table, his chair squeaking against the floor. “You  _ should have realized  _ ? Why? Because we look alike to you?”

“W-wha—”

“Just because two guys are brothers, you instantly assume that they’re blood relatives? Is that what it is? Two guys work at the same place and it’s suddenly  _ obvious _ that they’re related?”

“N-no, I just, uh, I mean—”

“So why _ “should you have realized” ,  _ huh? And if it was so obvious, why did you—”

“Keith, please, can’t you meet someone new just once without jumping down their throat? You know he didn’t mean anything by that.”

Lance whips around in his seat, gaping helplessly at a gently-smiling Shiro and wondering how much of the conversation he heard before stepping in. Hopefully, he wandered over some time after all of the rude things that Lance said about him, but, even more pressing…

Hopefully he doesn’t recognize Lance, compared to a five year old selfie that he’s never gotten around to switching out on Facebook.

Shiro winds around the table with a grace that Lance can’t comprehend. Everything about him is just as pristine and perfect as his stupid online profile. He’s glowing, practically. He’s so chiseled from stone that it’s strange to see him moving about like he’s actually composed of flesh and bone.

With a short laugh, Shiro pats Keith on the back, reaching upward and ruffling his hair, despite the way that Keith curses at him and knocks his hand away.

Of course, Lance has a very easy time imagining Shiro as a knight in shining armor. He’d just never imagined that the damsel in distress and the fire-breathing dragon would be himself and Keith, in that exact order.

“You’ll have to excuse Keith,” Shiro says through another laugh, continuing to fiddle with Keith’s hair in an apparent attempt to annoy him even further, “He gets fussy like this when he’s nervous. I know it seems like he’s a tough guy, but deep down, he’s just a big softie. Isn’t that right, Keith?”

Keith scowls in response, batting Shiro’s fingers away each time that they creep closer to his hair. His face is bright red, his jaw tight and his brows arched in anger. He looks more like a coiled cobra, hissing in warning and preparing to strike, than the cuddly teddybear that Shiro’s trying to make him out to be.

And Lance knows how it feels to be nervous. He knows how it feels to say the wrong things and stumble over his words.

But he’s never been so flustered that he’s almost flipped a table, or punched someone in the face. Or even so awkward that he’s accused them of  _ something _ , that he still isn’t entirely sure of.

“By the way,” Shiro says suddenly, pausing his ministrations in Keith’s hair and pretending that he doesn’t notice as Keith quickly ducks away from him and stumbles out onto the floor. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”

“He’s the guy who always orders the chicken-bacon double,” Keith interjects, before Lance even has a chance to make an ass out of himself, “He came in wearing a uniform that one day, from that _ Sal’s Pizza _ place. You know, where Rolo works?”

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : So Keith saved you from humiliating yourself? Wow, good on Keith. It took me years to figure out how to remove your foot from your mouth! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Ha. Ha. Ha. That’s not the point, Pidge! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : He remembered me! Like, down to my work uniform! Even Shiro was surprised, I could tell! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : So what happened after that? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well, Keith’s break was over, which was why Shiro came over, you know… to tell him to come back to work. So he went back. _

_**Hunk3141** : That’s it? You didn’t get his number? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : What do you mean “that’s it”?! This is huge! Monumental, even! We ate lunch together, Hunk! Like a date! We’ve practically had our first date already! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Yeah, where you further insulted his only remaining family. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Actually, there’s something that I don’t understand about all of this. The Shiroganes are still very-much alive. Shiro has pictures of them on his profile. Plus, if Keith is Shiro’s brother, why doesn’t Shiro have any pictures of him online? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I don’t know, Pidge! Why does it matter? _

_**Hunk3141** : No, dude, that’s actually really weird. Didn’t you say that Shiro had some childhood photos on there too? Like… some embarrassing Christmas photos with his family or something? And Keith wasn’t even in those? And why did Keith act so offended when you said that you should’ve known that they were related? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Yeah, what’s the point of lying about your boss being your brother? If Lance’s rude comment offended him, it wouldn’t have mattered if Shiro was his relative or not. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Yeah, but I mean… That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe they’re just not close…? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I guess it doesn’t really “matter”, if your potential love interest already spinning a tangled web of lies doesn’t mean anything to you. But something about this doesn’t sit right with me, Lance. Something really strange is going on. _

_**Hunk3141** : You know what this means, right Lance? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : ...No? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You have to get closer to him, Lance. You need to get his number. Once you’re close enough that he’s willing to give you his number, you’re close enough that he’ll tell you everything you need to know. _

_**Hunk3141** : Then you can finally get to the bottom of this! Can you do it, Lance? Can you get to the bottom of this mystery for us? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Oh my God, I’m going to get his number eventually! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I don’t even know why I’m friends with either of you! _

_ —-LadiesLoveLance has left the chat—- _

_**Hunk3141** : Twenty bucks says that he doesn’t get Keith’s number next time that they see each other. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Hunk, you know that I don’t make bets that I can’t win. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance backpedals at a speed akin to that of a God.  
> Hello again, you guys! Back again this week with a chapter that’s a little bit longer than the rest!
> 
> Did Lance get extra cheese again? Of course he did. Why was he being so vague? He’s in love, be patient with him. 
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to ask: what’s your favorite cheese? Mine is provolone, so please keep an eye out when that chapter title pops up!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! See you next week!


	5. Mozzarella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Specials: Three large pizzas, a medium order of gossip, and a large side-order of awkward invitations.

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I guess Hunk’s doing some kind of “sleepover” thing online with Shay tonight. He keeps saying, “No dude, you’re totally welcome to join us, man! It’s totally cool with both of us, dude!” But I can read between the lines, Pidge. I know that we’d all feel weird with me sitting there right across the room while they’re telling each other lame engineering jokes and making kissy faces. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : So I picked up a closing shift, but what am I supposed to do after 11pm? Go back to our room like some loser who doesn’t have plans on a Saturday night and just listen to them baby talk each other until my misery puts me to sleep?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Well, do you have plans on this Saturday night? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Of course not, Pidge! That’s why I’m in this situation in the first place! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Then you aren’t “like” a loser with no plans on a Saturday night. You “are” a loser with no plans on a Saturday night. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, whatever! You’re not being helpful! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Well, if you’re trying to ask if you can come over, then you should just ask instead of trying to trick me into inviting you. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : ...Fine. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Can I come over and spend the night in your room? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : No. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : What the Hell, Pidge?! Why not?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I have mathletes tomorrow and I know how you are! Last year, when I had science fair the next day, you stayed in my room listening to stupid old love songs all night and ate all of my ice cream! I’ve been burned by you before, Lance! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : That was different! That was after... _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Uh… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : After that girl turned you down when you asked her to prom. Can you even remember her name, Lance? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Hold on… I know it.... _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You deserve Keith, Lance. Really. You were made for each other. _

 

* * *

 

 

It’s 9pm on a Saturday night at  _ Sal’s Pizza _ , and Lance is the only delivery driver left on staff. Regularly, on nights like this, he’d be flying from location to location. They’d be so backed up that he wouldn’t even have enough time to stop for his break. By the end of his shift, the cooks in the kitchen would be so exhausted that some of them would fall asleep against the pizza oven, and it would be Lance’s job to wake them up or drag them outside before he locked the doors for the night.

As it is, it’s been slow enough that half of the staff went home early. Rolo, the night manager, supposes that it’s due to a new fast food restaurant opening down the street.

“Pizza through the drive-thru,” he says with a wry grin and a faraway look in his eyes that Lance thinks is a little bit too romantic, given their current conversation, “It’s a death toll for small family businesses like this. I betcha by the end of this year, half the places on the block go bankrupt.”

Lance still hasn’t garnered the nerve to ask him how he possibly knows Keith.

He’s a scraggly, caramel-voiced sort of guy. He’s handsome in the way that he barely tries at all. His shaggy hair is tucked haphazardly into his netted cap. The scruff on his chin is forever shaved in a way that looks like it’s been growing out for a few weeks.

He sneaks out back with some of the clerks each hour on the dot, and the whole lot of them stumble in a good fifteen minutes later reeking of something pungent that Lance suspects might not be legal, nor the cigarette smoke that they claim it to be.

And Rolo is the sort of guy who Lance can imagine hanging out with someone like Keith. He doesn’t take anything too seriously. He’s a burnout who’s coasted through life with little interest in anything but his music and his parties, his drugs and his fun.

He’s carefree and nonchalant. He sees no masters or no bosses but the guys in his favorite bands and the suspicious, shifty-eyed creeps who meet him behind the building while he’s on his breaks.

He’s bad news, Lance thinks. But he’s just the type of bad news that he could imagine hanging off of Keith’s arm.

“Yo, delivery boy, you got an order!”

Lance grimaces, shirking away behind the corner and hoping that maybe Rolo will think that he’s too busy—just long enough that maybe he can regain his composure after getting too worked up thinking about Keith slipping Rolo a few extra slices of cheese.

No dice, however. Rolo’s head peeks around the corner, and the slack edges of his mouth pull up in a lazy smile.

“I wanted to ask you about something first though,” he says, “a buddy of mine brought you up the other day. Just wanted to know how you know ‘em.”

Lance grits his teeth, forcing his most convincing smile and reminding himself that he definitely couldn’t take a guy like Rolo in a fight. In a fair fight, sure, maybe, but he can tell that Rolo’s not the type of guy who plays by the rules.

Like Keith, he thinks.

He feels like he might be sick.

“You mean Keith,” he says slowly, gravelly and pushed hard through tightly-locked teeth, “You’re buddies with Keith, right?”

Rolo stares at him for a moment, blankly. One brow raises first, followed by the other. He cocks his head to the side, sucking in one side of his cheek and trailing his eyes to the ceiling, as though he’s trying very hard to understand what Lance is telling him.

As though he doesn’t exactly remember Keith’s name.

What a joke, Lance thinks. What a disgusting, cruel joke of the universe.

“Oh, you mean Keith Kogane, right? That pissy little guy who works at the Deli? Nah man, I meant Shiro. His older brother. Shiro said that you’ve been comin’ in a lot lately and chatting up his little bro, and he was wondering if you’d be a  _ ‘positive influence’.  _ Kinda a joke, if you ask me. No amount of  _ ‘positive influence’  _ is ever gonna fix that kid’s bad attitude.”

“W-wait.” Lance scans through everything that Rolo has told him at record speed. He pieces the important parts together and forces himself to ignore all of the insults, that might otherwise piss him off and distract him. Keith knows Rolo through Shiro, which means that they barely know each other at all. Rolo is old enough to know someone like Shiro. They probably graduated from high school together. They might know each other from college. “You… you know Shiro?”

“Yeah man, small town, you know? Everyone knows everyone, and of course everyone knows the Shiroganes. Family’s pretty big on charity. Which is the whole reason why they ended up messing around with that Keith kid in the first place. They always gotta do something big and dramatic. Can’t just donate some money to a hospital or adopt a dog. They gotta bring home some orphan and “ _ rehabilitate _ ” him.”

This is all too much, too fast. Lance isn’t sure why he hadn’t thought about adoption. He isn’t sure why he hadn’t thought about any of this at all. He’d been so focused on Keith being single that he’d ignored everything else. He’d been so determined that teaching Keith more about himself was the key to making him fall in love, but now...

He isn’t so sure.

Because someone like Rolo, who obviously doesn’t care about Keith or Shiro, Allura, the cute cartoons, the extra cheese, or any of it , knows more about everything than Lance does.

In place of the bitterness that he almost wishes that he could feel, with much disgust, he catches himself hoping that he can sit down with Rolo after their shift is over and talk about all of this.

“Wait, Keith’s… adopted ?”

Rolo waves a hand in the air before disappearing behind the wall. When he makes his way around the corner, after only a few seconds, he’s pushing three pizzas into Lance’s hands. Followed closely by the warming bag, and a receipt that lists the contact information of the customer.

“I’d love to gossip with you more, kid, but your order’s due in ten minutes or it’s free.”

And as he’s pushing Lance out of the door toward his bike, he adds, quietly and smugly and with grating laughter, “I hear he likes you a whole lot though, delivery boy. So whatever you’re doing, it’s good enough that his brother’s poking around, asking about you.”

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : He’s messing with you, Lance. He’s just trying to get in your head. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Why would he lie about this, Pidge? Why would he care enough? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Isn’t this the guy who said that he was going to fight you for trying to date his little sister and freaked you out for an entire week before he told you that he was joking? Isn’t this the guy who convinced you that delivery guys are supposed to cook pizzas during their downtime so you’d have to sit there doing his job while he went outside and got high? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Isn’t this the guy who could obviously call you by your name since you’re wearing a nametag, but he chooses to keep calling you “delivery boy” because he knows that it gets under your skin? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Isn’t this the guy who still works at a pizza place because he got expelled from college for doing drugs in the courtyard? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : YES, Pidge. Yes, oh my God. But it’s not like that this time, I can just feel it! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : It’s just “not like that” because you don’t want it to “be like that”, Lance. I’m just saying, it’s not smart to immediately trust people just because they tell you what you want to hear. Not everyone has your best interests in mind. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Pidge, ugh, no. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Okay, I know that you’re sick of hearing about it, but after everything that happened in high school, I’m not going to stand idly by and let it all happen again! I knew that it was a bad idea to trust those guys back then, and I’m telling you, I definitely think that it’s a bad idea to trust this guy now. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I’m not talking about this with you, Pidge! It was one thing that happened one time four years ago, and it’s done! It wasn’t even that big of a deal back then! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Not everyone is out to get me, okay?! I’m not just going to sit here and waste my college years being afraid that everyone is gonna… screw me over or whatever. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Lance, listen to me. _

_ —-LadiesLoveLance Has Left The Chat—- _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh, Lance… Please just be careful. _

 

* * *

 

 

Shoving his phone into his pocket much more forcefully than he needs to, Lance raises a hand and pounds it against the door for the third time.

He’s been standing here for ten minutes now, banging on the door helplessly, listening to the booming music humming through the cracks and the open windows, wondering if the pizza will cost extra if so much time passes that he’s stuck waiting here after the end of his shift.

They’d better tip well, at the very least. Their house is big enough that they can afford it, easily. He feels uncomfortable standing here now, in his ugly, grease-stained uniform, leaning his six year old, nearly-busted bike against a railing that surely costs three times as much as anything that he owns.

The house is built out of some kind of fancy, artisanal stone. The kind of material that houses are made out of in the movies. The kinds of houses where teens throw big parties and get murdered by masked serial killers. The kinds of houses where, in reality, their owners grow old and die without the sorts of worries that a kid like himself—who’s spent the entire semester stressing about student loans and filling out financial aid papers perfectly—has grown painfully accustomed to.

His mom always told him not to look at his neighbor’s plate unless he’s making sure that they’re eating enough. She’s always told him just to appreciate what he has, and to never waste his time wishing for things that won’t ever make him happy.

But it’s hard, he thinks, while he’s standing here in the chilly evening air without a jacket. When he’s waiting here like an idiot for a bunch of rich assholes to finally answer their door. When it’s so painfully obvious that he’s so unimportant to these people that they wouldn’t even pay attention after ordering fifty dollars worth of food.

Just as he’s about to knock on the door again, he can hear voices just behind it. They’re yelling over the music, but he can’t understand them. The lights through the curtains flicker before turning on. The door rattles as it’s pulled open, and hurriedly, he straightens himself up and pretends that he wasn’t just wishing a very painful death on all of them.

A woman answers the door. She’s shorter than him by only a few inches—smiling in a way that reminds him of the models in catalogs, as though she’s never had a bad day in her life. Her skin is dark but her hair and her eyes are lighter—a translucent white and a sparkling blue. And he realizes, so, so late, so, so mortified—

He knows exactly who she is.

He’s seen her before.

Hanging off of Shiro’s meaty arm in so many photographs, smiling this same picture perfect smile.

It’s Allura. Shiro’s girlfriend.

Another person with a strong, albeit questionable connection to Keith.

Quietly, feebly, he wishes that he were dead.

“I’m so sorry that it took so long,” She tells him, fumbling around in the tiny, obviously expensive purse in her hands, “How much do I owe you?”

“U-uh, um…” He nearly drops the pizzas as he grapples with them, struggling to procure the receipt from his pocket. “It’s, uh… it’s $58.62.”

She hands him a stack of bills and tells him to keep the change. He pockets it without even counting it, but she doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t mention it. They stand there awkwardly in silence for far too long, until he tries shoving the entire bundle of pizza into her arms and just taking off without another word.

“O-oh, you probably need your bag back, right?”

Her accent is beautiful and posh—like the British celebrities that he sometimes sees on TV. Exactly how he’d imagine that someone who was dating Shiro would sound.

“Yeah, um… Sorry, thanks.”

He’s turning away when she stops him. Her hand on his arm is warm and soft. Her nails are smooth and blunted, acrylic-tipped and perfectly manicured. He isn’t sure why all of this makes him feel worse. He isn’t sure why Allura’s pride in her appearance makes him feel lower than dirt, like an absolute moron for ever thinking that he had a chance with Keith, when Keith is surely just as accustomed to this life by now.

“I’m sorry, but you’re Lance, aren’t you? You visit the Deli often. Keith has spoken about you frequently, but we haven’t had the chance to meet yet.”

She laughs then, flustered as she pulls her hand slowly away from his arm. She tucks a long strand of soft, silvery hair behind her ear. Her earrings sparkle. They’re diamonds, he thinks. Big ones that dangle and tangle in her hair. She’s almost perfect, almost as surreal as Shiro, but her lip gloss is smudged and her eyeliner cakes at the corner of her eyes.

Her words are slurring, ever-so slightly. She’s swaying gently from side to side where she stands.

For whatever reason, he can’t stop focusing on all of these things. Like watching a God fall to his knees, maybe. Like watching a forest fire smothered under heavy rain.

He reminds himself that Allura is human. She’s a normal person, just like he is.

Just like Shiro is, just like Keith is.

She’s drunk right now. And for some reason, she knows who he is.

“You probably have no idea who I am, I’m so sorry for startling you. I’m Shiro’s girlfriend. Sometimes I work at the Deli with him and Keith.”

“Y-yeah.” Lance chokes out, barely coherent by now. This is all happening too fast. “I… I know who you are. Uh… Nice to meet you, I guess.”

To her credit, she doesn’t seem perturbed that he apparently knows of her too, when she took so long to recognize him. And he won’t contemplate it until later, why she recognized him at all. How she was able to look at a random stranger in the dark, in a pizza delivery uniform, in the middle of a party where she’s obviously been drinking, and still be able to realize exactly who he was.

Those thoughts won’t come until later tomorrow.

And only then will he start wondering if maybe Pidge was wrong about Rolo, just this once. If maybe, they were both wrong about him and Keith.

If maybe this whole thing is a lot more complicated than any of them could have ever imagined.

“Say,” Allura says, interrupting his scattered thoughts and lifting a finger to her lips, “Your job closes very soon, doesn’t it? Why don’t you come back tonight once you’re off? The door isn’t locked, so please, come in and make yourself at home! Keith is in his room, but I think he would be very happy to see you.”

She smiles like someone who’s hiding something.

As though she has some kind of secret plot.

But even so, like an idiot, he nods.

Even if it’s a mistake, or some kind of sick joke, he really doesn’t want to go home tonight.

So he nods again, and he tells her that he’ll be back after eleven. He tells her to tell Keith that he’ll be here too.

His heart is a thunder storm within his chest. His thoughts are a hurricane in his head.

And he’s happy, even if this is a big misstep.

For awhile, he allows himself to hope that this could be fun.

He’ll see Keith, he’ll drink, he’ll be merry.

He’ll have plans on a Saturday night, just like any other normal person.

 

* * *

 

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : This is the opposite of what I meant when I said to be careful, Lance! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Oh, chill out for once, Pidge! Shouldn’t you be studying? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : How can I study when you’re messaging me such crazy talk?! Are you seriously considering going to some random stranger’s party just because a pretty girl batted her eyelashes at you… again?!!? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Pidge, stop it. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I already told you that I’m not going to talk to you about that! And I’m going, and that’s final. I’m not arguing about this. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I’m not “arguing” either, Lance! This is a bad idea! You don’t know these people! You don’t even know if Keith is actually going to be there! Isn’t this exactly how it went last time?! _

_**Hunk3141** : Okay guys, I’ve been talking to Shay about this and she thinks that Lance should go. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Hunk! I appreciate that Shay backs me up here, but did you really have to tell her?! She used to think that I was cool! _

_**Hunk3141** : She thinks that you’re “nice”, Lance. That’s different than being cool. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Well, what do you think, Hunk? Do you think he should go? _

_**Hunk3141** : Well… Honestly Pidge, if he wants to go, I don’t think that we should inhibit him from enjoying college, you know? I mean, he should definitely be careful, but why would a bunch of rich people like the Shiroganes, who are obviously basically celebrities around here, waste their time bullying some random guy who wants to date their adopted son? Wouldn’t that kind of, you know, tarnish their spotless reputation? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I can’t believe that I didn’t consider adoption… _

_**Hunk3141** : I know, Pidge, we’re supposed to be the smart ones here… _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well, it looks like you’re outnumbered, Pidge-for-brains! So smell ya later, losers! I’m going to a rich people party! I bet they have champagne! _

_**Hunk3141** : I bet they have a caviar fountain, man. Oh! I bet they have truffles! I bet they have gold-plated party-favors! _

_**Hunk3141** : Lance, you gotta take pictures, okay? You gotta tell us how the rich people live! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Alright, Hunk, but I can’t make any promises. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I might be too busy sucking face with the cute guy who apparently “keeps talking about me”. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Ugh, Lance! Ew! TMI! _

_ —-LadiesLoveLance Has Left The Chat—- _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Did Shay really call Lance “nice”? _

_**Hunk3141** : More or less. I mean, she barely knows him, so… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Lance? You mean “our” Lance? We are talking about the same Lance here, right? _

_**Hunk3141** : Yes, Pidge, the same Lance. _

_**Hunk3141** : I feel too bad to correct her at this point though! What am I supposed to tell her? How would you even describe Lance to another person?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : True, true… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : That poor, naive girl. You have to protect her, Hunk. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week… we introduce Rolo, and also Allura. I really just love both of them so please be gentle with me. 
> 
> Anyway, this week’s chapter is called “Mozzarella” because it’s the favorite cheese of the always lovely, always charming **Dee**. And I also wanted to give a little shout-out to **TLaw** for mentioning that their favorite cheese is Manchego, which was, of course, the title of chapter three. 
> 
> So let me know what your favorite cheese is, and you’ll get the pleasure of, like… seeing it as a chapter title. Which, I know, is such a gigantic honor.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! See you next Friday!


	6. Cotija

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's Specials: One date with destiny.

It’s a chilly September night.

The skies are perfectly clear, so much so that, for the first time since he moved from his quaint rural home into a busier town that never seems to sleep in comparison, Lance can actually see the stars.

He’s pushing hard against the pedals of his bike, breath labored and heart hammering in his chest as he makes quick work of all of the hills and winding curves in the road along the way. He’s a man on a mission, he tells himself.

Tonight, he has a date with destiny.

It’s been weeks now, since he first laid eyes on Keith Kogane, standing so unassuming and so unaware behind the front counter in the Deli. It’s been weeks since he experienced true love for the very first time. It’s been weeks since he’d felt himself melting into nothing but useless, scatterbrained jelly, since he put his foot in his mouth for the first time and somehow, Keith still forgave him.

It’s been weeks since Keith started giving him those extra slices of cheese.

And now, he can feel the excitement popping in the air around him. He feels like he’s on top of the world. He feels, finally, after so many days and so many weeks of investigating all possible leads and tying up every loose end, as though every fleeting moment and every longing look will finally start to pay off.

Everything seems to be finally coming to a head.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, but he focuses on the road. His bike squeaks miserably, wobbling under his weight. It was built for a smaller boy. It was built for a younger version of himself on his twelfth birthday, a version of himself that could surely never imagine where he’d eventually find himself, in this very moment, right now.

And he doesn’t know if that younger Lance would be proud of him or not. He doesn’t know if a younger Lance would rolls his eyes, tell him, _“Of course you’re still single and pathetic”_ , and accept his lonely bachelor fate for the following six years until hopefully, tonight’s events might change that.

But when he finally sets his sights on the Shirogane household, his confidence wanes. He’s suddenly painfully aware of how much he reeks of garlic and marinara, how his uniform sags where he’d wiped his wet hands on it after doing dishes—how he should have just risked being a little bit later than he’d wanted to and hearing Hunk’s worried lectures just to change into something more appropriate.

Something that might make Keith realize that he’s the only one for him.

As it is, he feels frightfully under-dressed. He winds his bike around all of the parked cars and dismounts before pushing it up the perfectly-paved, completely crack-free driveway. Even the air feels fresher here—less contaminated with all of the different restaurant smells and the mingled cloud of perfume and cologne that he’s so used to inhaling in town.

It’s a small oasis of manicured houses, its own little heaven comprised of expensive masonry and tall, designer streetlamps, and neighborhood watch vans patrolling each corner of every street.

It’s only missing a gate and a watchman. It’s only missing a keycard or some kind of secret password that he’d need to know in order to even get in.

He still doesn’t know if he plans to knock or not—or if he’s willing to stand around waiting until someone notices him outside and lets him in. It took them long enough to come for the pizza that they were _waiting for_ though, he muses, and if they aren’t expecting him, he might be standing outside until everyone begins making their way home in the morning.

With a heavy sigh, he props his bike against the garage door. It’s hidden by tall, squared-off shrubbery, so flat that he’s tempted to run his hand over the surface, but even without it, he feels as though this isn’t exactly the kind of neighborhood where he has to worry about things getting stolen.

This isn’t the kind of place where he’d envisioned Keith living.

This is not where he would have thought of Keith coming home at night, after he’s closed up at the Deli and packed all of his things. He can’t imagine Keith locking himself away in any of the large rooms in this house, playing games on some pricey game system, chatting online on a computer nicer than anything that Lance can even afford to look at.

He can’t see Keith running around in that giant back yard with the golden retriever from Shiro’s pictures, or coming outside to sit by the pool and enjoying a cocktail at any of those fancy parties.

It’s not the life that he can craft around a person like Keith—around someone who seems to have been kicked down too many times to care anymore. Someone who acts as though they don’t understand how it feels to be shown kindness, or how to interact with other people who aren’t looking to screw him over somehow.

With a deep breath, he works the nerves out of each of his limbs, shuddering against the cold on his bare arms and turning to stare for a moment at the door. He can still feel the music vibrating around him—can hear the bass bumping and the muffled lyrics filtering through the open windows into the otherwise silent night.

He takes a few steps toward the front door, grumbling as he feels his phone vibrating again in his pocket.

And he doesn’t take a moment to check his notifications because he’s scared or anything—of course not. He just needs to turn it off so Pidge and Hunk will stop bugging him.

 

* * *

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Pay attention to your surroundings in there, Lance! And don’t leave your drink alone! Actually, don’t drink at all if you can help it. Do you really want your first impression with Keith outside of the Deli to be you blubbering over The Notebook like you always do when you’re with us? _

_**Hunk3141** : Don’t sing karaoke, man! No matter how much anyone tries to talk you into it! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : If someone is creeping you out, stop talking to them immediately! If they won’t leave you alone, go find Allura or Shiro or something! _

_**Hunk3141** : Or Keith! He’s small, but I bet the little guy packs a punch! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Can you guys chill? I’m not four years old! This isn’t my first day of preschool! I’ve been to a party before! _

_**Hunk3141** : Yeah, but last time… _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : How many times do I have to keep telling you guys to drop it?! God, you act like it happened to you or something! Why are you both so obsessed with that stupid party?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : It was a big deal, Lance. No matter how determined you are to pretend that it wasn’t! It was a really shitty thing that happened to you, and you have to be careful not to let it happen again! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You’re a good guy, but you trust people too easily. Especially if you’re attracted to them. But this is the real world now, Lance. This isn’t high school. There are a lot worse things that could happen to you now than some dumb online video and a bunch of idiots making fun of you. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay! Okay. I’ll… text you guys later, alright? I’ll let you know that everything is fine, because it’s gonna be fine! This is Shiro that we’re talking about here. The squeaky clean charity-fiend who loves cute dogs and drawing cartoons on the menu every morning. I doubt he’s throwing some shady underground drug party or anything. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Fine. Text us in a few hours, okay? Let us know how things go. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Ugh, I should’ve just let you crash in my room tonight… I should’ve known that this was going to happen. _

 

* * *

 

Pocketing his phone, he makes his way up the few stairs leading to the porch, pausing one final time to compose himself before grasping the doorknob and pushing his way through.

The door leads him into the living room, it seems—or the den, or whatever fancy rich people call the room with all of the couches where guests generally visit. The lights are dimmed, and it looks as though all of the decor has been cleared away to make room for extra chairs, for a long table topped with a wide variety of drinks, and another identical one across the room, stacked with so many snacks that he has trouble focusing on just one.

He’d made the mistake of filling up on breadsticks before the end of his shift. Rolo had made extra, or so he’d claimed, and the two of them had split the bag before going their separate ways for the night.

 _“You’re not going to Shiro’s party?”_ he’d asked, and Rolo had smiled.

It was a strange smile—poignant, maybe. A glint in his eyes that told Lance that maybe he wasn’t as close to Shiro as he’d originally assumed.

_“Nah, not exactly my crowd, man. But you have fun. Be a positive influence, and all that.”_

They’re still on uncertain terms, himself and Rolo. Ever since he tried dating Rolo’s sister, Nyma, at the beginning of the semester, he’s not exactly sure where he stands with the guy.

But it’s better, he thinks, that a guy like Rolo doesn’t frequent Shiro’s parties. He’s just the kind of shady character that Pidge seems to be so worried about.

As it is, the people around him seem completely disinterested in him. They’re dressed nicely—in the satin dress shirts and the shiny party gowns that Lance feels is befitting to all of them, to these kinds of pretty people who should be posing for magazines. Who wear the same kinds of overpriced clothes that those catalogs might be trying to sell him.

He can’t spot Allura or Shiro, or any familiar faces at all, so he elects to move on to another room. The music around him blares so loud that he feels as though he’s vibrating through wavelengths, as though he’s stepped through a passage into another universe, where time itself is moving slowly and way too fast, and the light and darkness meld together into one solid form, urging him down a long hallway into the kitchen.

He feels tired already, from his shift and from all of the excitement. It’s brighter in here, quieter. There’s a drunk girl slouched against the table, mumbling against the wood. There’s a handsome guy sitting next to her, patting her on the back and urging her to drink the glass of water in his hand.

It’s a big kitchen, with an island of counters in the center, various sizes of pots and pans hanging from a rack above the stove. There are appliances sitting neatly along the counter that each look spotless and clean, nearly brand new and far too high-tech compared to the nasty, gurgling coffeemaker in the break room at school.

He feels as though he’s a streak of mud on the floor. He feels as though everyone is looking at him in confusion, wondering what sort of pizza place delivers this late at night.

He’s even still wearing his stupid hat, just because his hair had looked far too ridiculous when he’d tried taking it off before he’d left.

“H-hey.” His voice sounds like sandpaper, and feels similar as it rattles through his throat. The guy at the table looks up at him, smiling slightly, apologetically as he continues patting the girl on the back. “Do you… do you know where Allura is?”

“Are you her brother?” the guy asks him, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes.

This must be the kind of thing that Keith deals with all the time. No wonder he was so defensive when Lance brought it up before.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Do you know where she is?”

“She’s upstairs somewhere,” the guy tells him, just as the girl next to him begins retching as though she’s going to be sick. Lance feels his stomach quiver just listening to her, “Said she was gonna go talk to Shiro’s little bro or something, but I haven’t seen her since.”

He wonders if anyone who knows Shiro actually knows Keith by name. He thinks back to all of Pidge’s suspicions, how Keith being adopted still doesn’t exactly explain why Shiro doesn’t have any pictures of him on his profile. How it seems as though everyone knows something about the Shiroganes that they aren’t exactly willing to tell him.

All of it makes him feel a little nervous, so he chooses not to think about it right now. He’ll spend more time considering all of the options later on, when he isn’t standing here alone in a kitchen with a guy who apparently can’t tell that he isn’t even the same race as Allura, and a girl who can’t hold her alcohol.

With a small thanks, he steps back into the hall, reaching out to skim the wall with his fingers as he walks through. He feels again as though he’s slipped into the “in-between”, into a place that exists between his normal everyday and this very different universe. Where everyone is so beautiful and so happy, where everyone is wearing clothing more expensive than his entire semester’s tuition at school, and they’re drinking and laughing and living so disconnected from all of the fears and the worries that he can feel boiling inside of himself.

There’s a landing just as he reaches the end of the hall. One side will lead him back out into the living room. One end will lead him into another dark room filled with many more bodies. And on another side, there’s a tall, straight staircase with an ornate, wooden railing. It’s lined with many photographs that he can barely make out in the dark.

He climbs the stairs slowly, ignoring the spiking vibrato of his heart, eyeing all of the happy, smiling faces behind the glass. Watching Shiro grow up from a baby into an adult, nearly losing his footing as he recognizes Keith’s scowl sandwiched between the grins of two people who look startlingly like Shiro—stuffed in a stiff suit with a lopsided tie, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest as though he’s lost his patience just before someone snapped the photo.

The fast-tempo of the music downstairs fades into the slow drawls of a love song. He reaches the top of the stairs just as he’s able to hear people joking and laughing above the sound of it, just as he hears a voice that sounds suspiciously like Shiro drunkenly making some kind of toast.

Good, he thinks. He doesn’t want to spend more time around Shiro than he has to. It’s only a matter of time before the guy recognizes him, and he really doesn’t want that moment of clarity to come tonight.

At the top of the stairs is another hallway, but he doesn’t have time to fret over all of the different doors. Because as soon as he’s no more than two steps into that hall, a door just in front of him clatters open.

It’s startling, but he doesn’t even have the opportunity to be scared properly, because Allura is practically pouring out into the hall, raising one hand in the air to wave at whoever might still be in the room that she’s attempting, poorly, to leave, while steadying herself against the wall with the other.

With her heel, she shoves the door closed, giggling desperately as she struggles to pull herself fully to her feet.

“H-hey, are you okay?” he asks, drawing near her and grasping her just under the arm. He steadies her, surprised momentarily by how heavy she is when she seems so small, before she tips her head up to look at him. The widest smile that he could possibly imagine spreads out over her lips.

She laughs again, for a short moment, before thanking him and untangling herself from his arms.

“You—you wore your work uniform,” she titters, patting him all the way from his shoulder to the center of his chest, “Th-that’s so cute, Lance. Keith—Keith was so right about you. You _are_ cute. Oh my goodness, you are very cute.”

He tries not to let her words get to him—to distract him too much when she’s still so dreadfully close to tipping over and falling on her face, if he just so happens to have a lapse of consciousness and allows her to slip away.

“Do you need to lie down or something?” he asks, trying in vain to grab her by the arm, just as she limply swats him away. “Where’s the bathroom? Do you want me to take you in there?”

“D-don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Keith’s waiting f—for you. I just finished telling him that you’d be coming. He’s going to be so excited to see you, Lance! He’s always so withdrawn when we have these parties, but I think he might actually join us tonight, with you here with him!”

He tries not to let his imagination get the better of him, struggles not to let all of this go to his head. His face feels terribly warm, and he begins to suspect that maybe the Shiroganes keep their thermostat cranked up high. He feels sticky here, sweaty from his bike ride over and claustrophobic with so many people so close by. He feels strung out and tired, from working so late, from allowing himself to get so worked up. From wading through the alternate realities that surely exist within the Shiroganes’ halls, and weaving in and out of so many planes of existence, in search of the boy who apparently waits for him just through the closest door.

He feels a lot like Alice tonight, he thinks, as though he’s stumbling blindly through Wonderland. As though he’s so strange and so big, too small, too weird and too normal to understand any of the things going on around him, but somehow still finds the strength to keep pushing himself along.

Pidge would think that he’d already started drinking, if she could hear him now. He’s painfully aware that he’s barely making any sense.

But Keith does that to him. He makes his brain all mixed up. He makes everything that used to make perfect sense suddenly very confusing, makes the world feel upside down. Makes the ground rain up into the ocean sky. Makes his head float so high that he’s breathing in clouds.

He wonders if maybe this is a byproduct of love, or if maybe, secretly, Keith really is some sort of ethereal being, fallen from the heavens to guide him.

Suddenly, Allura pulls away from him, grasping him so much harder by the arm than she did earlier in the night and tugging him toward Keith’s door.

“Why don’t you go talk to him?” She asks, but doing so is so much harder than she makes it sound.

“Right through that door,” she tells him, “he’s waiting for you.”

His heart patters helplessly in his chest.

His palms are slick with sweat.

A date with destiny—that’s what he’d told himself earlier.

And now, as Allura stumbles down the hall, and he listens to the sound of someone moving around just beyond the door, he wonders if destiny is all that it’s cracked up to be.

Behind that door is something that could just change his life.

Behind that door is the boy who owns his heart, just waiting for him to arrive.

Behind that door is everything that he’s been dreaming of for weeks.

Behind that door is Keith.

And that alone has him terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty short chapter, but I hope it was okay!  
> Shout-out to **fulmiinata** for letting me know that their favorite cheese is cotija!


	7. Provolone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight’s Specials: Regrettable encounters, a look into the bedroom of a dreamboat, and late-night rendezvous.

Keith’s room is nothing like he could have ever imagined.

Honestly, he shouldn’t really be surprised by all of these surprises anymore.

The walls are bare—just white paint with no photos or posters littered about them. Plain in a way that resonates how misplaced he must feel here _ — _ in this strange, big _ , loud _ life _ — _ deep inside of Lance’s chest. The floor is spotless hardwood, glossy and ever-so slippery under the worn soles of his sneakers. There’s a neatly-organized desk against the wall to his right, with just a closed laptop on the surface, a few notebooks in a pile on the edge. There’s a laundry basket that’s empty save for a familiar, oversized uniform, and Lance wonders momentarily if the Shiroganes have a maid who does their laundry. He can’t imagine Keith taking the time to separate the whites from the colors, can’t fathom if he’d have the patience to use fabric softener or even remember to switch them over to the dryer before they got too wrinkled.

Just across the room from where he stands in the doorway is Keith’s bed, pushed flush against a window-seat framed with twinkling fairy lights.

And tucked away in that window seat is Keith himself, with his knees pulled close to his chest, a book in his hands. He turns lazy eyes in Lance’s direction, his frown pulled tight over his lips as obvious color rises to his cheeks. He looks stiff and carefully placed, as though someone’s stationed him here and told him to pose for a photo. He looks just as uncomfortable now as he’d looked behind that frame on the staircase wall _ — _ flustered and out of place, unsure of how a normal person might look happy, or relaxed, or just…  _ normal _ . 

He’s dressed casually now, without his uniform on, for the first time that Lance has ever seen. And, for once, it’s exactly what he was anticipating. Just a regular black, short-sleeved shirt and a dark pair of jeans. Just mismatched socks that look like they might have seen better days. He doesn’t look as waifish in clothes that actually fit him, but he still looks beautiful. He still looks like the most miraculous thing that Lance has ever laid eyes on. 

He’s lightheaded again _ — _ tongue-tied and terribly dumb at the sight of Keith sitting so close, so much so that he could step forward and touch him. And there’s no one else around now, to interrupt. He could spill his guts right here, right now, and no one could cut him off. Keith wouldn’t be distracted by making sandwiches, he wouldn’t be on a break that would eventually end. It’s just the two of them now _ — _ in perpetual night, in a dreamworld that feels as though it might carry on forever. Time is stagnant here, it seems. Time is only the amount of heartbeats that it would take for him to pace across the room and pull Keith into his arms. 

And even with infinite minutes, and a hand that’s stopped moving on every clock, he still chokes. He still can’t think of anything worthy of saying to someone as awe-inspiring as Keith Kogane.

He sits and stares, and Keith only stares back. 

He isn’t challenging, isn’t accusing him of anything this time. They’re just two eyes locked together under a heavy blanket of silence. 

And his heart pounds.

His throat itches.

Time somehow passes.

Before he can force words out of his dry, slack mouth, Keith cuts him off.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says simply, moodily, “The lights aren’t mine. Shiro’s—uh… _ my— _ no, um,  _ Shiro’s _ mom put them up.”

Lance responds with nothing short of the highest, least attractive, least pleasant-sounding squeak. He clears his throat then, running nervous fingers through his hair and rolling forward and back from the balls of his heels to the pads of his feet.

“W-wasn’t gonna mention it,” he forces out, “you know, uh… you do you.”

Keith raises a brow, sucking on the inside of his cheek. He sets his book down gingerly next to him, swinging his feet over the ledge of the window-seat onto his bed. It’s perfectly made, Lance notices. He never would have expected for Keith to be this  _ neat _ . It’s almost as though no one has lived in this room, as though it’s a movie set pieced together to convince him that Keith actually has a space of his own here, as though this is more than a long series of elaborate lies all piled up to fool him into thinking that Keith actually has a home.

That thought settles heavily and uncomfortably in the pits of his belly. He tries to ignore it.

“Allura kept talking about how cute she thinks you are,” Keith adds, “That’s how she is. She treats people like they’re tiny dogs that she can carry around in her purse.”

Lance wants to say that he thought that she seemed nice, and not nearly as condescending as Keith is implying, but he keeps his mouth shut. Surely, Keith knows more about any of these people than he does, and he definitely isn’t eager to repeat his little misstep with Shiro and the menu cartoons last week.

And while he’s at it, he neglects to mention that Allura’s purse had looked entirely too small to fit any dogs inside of it.

“D-do you—uh, do you wanna go downstairs or something? You know, uh, maybe get something to drink?”

He stabs his thumb behind him, signaling toward the door as though Keith might not know what lies beyond it. And he feels like an idiot for inviting the guy to have a drink in his own house, but standing here, in the threshold of Keith’s bedroom, alone with him, is starting to feel far too intimate to handle.

He can’t stop imagining what might happen if he were to step forward and sit on the bed too. And he can’t think about the bed right now—won’t even entertain the idea of it. He knows what happens when two people sit too close together on beds in the movies. He remembers the slow rhythm of the music, the dim lighting, the gradual buildup of tension until two lips come together and _ —dammit _ , he can’t think about kissing someone like Keith, when he can barely work up the courage to speak with him coherently.

It’s too dangerous to stay in here alone. It’s too dangerous when the lights around the windows are twinkling in the dark shadows of Keith’s eyes, framing his head like a halo, bathing him in the same ethereal light that Lance remembers from the very first moment that he laid eyes on him.

Keith shuffles closer to the edge of the bed, placing one foot, then the other on the floor before offering Lance a short jerk of a nod. He drags a pair of tattered sneakers from under the bed, stretching out the mouth of them to shove his feet inside without bothering to untie them.

“Sure,” he says, “There are drinks by the pool too. It’s quieter out there.”

A pool, of course.

There used to be a community pool in the center of the apartment complex where Lance grew up, but the water dried up one summer when the pipes broke, and they never filled it again. Kids used to skateboard in the depressing bones of it, and teenagers used to sneak in late at night and tag it with various graffiti, until the landlord got sick of all of it and fenced the whole thing off.

With time, they covered it up, but each time that he returns there, he can still imagine the outline of it under all of that cement.

It’s been years since he’s swam in a pool, and even longer since he’s known someone who’s had one of their own.

He wonders if Keith likes to swim, or if it’s nothing more to him than another boring surrounding in this life that he seems so determined to distance himself from.

He wonders if Keith ever learned to swim at all, in the life that he must have lived before he came here.

His phone vibrates again as Keith pushes himself off of the bed. His head swims, his heart skyrockets up into his throat.

He thinks about Keith stripping off his clothes and changing into a bathing suit. He thinks about all of that smooth, pale skin, shimmering like pearls in the moonlight. He thinks about how it might feel to reach through the thick of the water and run his fingers over it. How chilly the water might be tonight, how Keith might shiver and shake, and how he might pull him close to keep him warm.

“Are you coming or what?”

Maybe his fate is actually to die here.

Frankly, he isn’t so sure that it isn’t.

 

* * *

 

_**Hunk3141** : Any news? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Can you guys please leave me alone for more than an hour? Aren’t you supposed to be on a cyber date or whatever, Hunk? _

_**Hunk3141** : I am! But Shay keeps asking about you! She’s worried, dude! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Come on, Lance. You wouldn’t want to worry Shay. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I’m fine! Everything is fine! Me and Keith are going out to the pool for a drink. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Please keep your clothes on, Lance. As tempting as it might be to suggest skinny-dipping, please, don’t do it. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Can you stop?! This is hard enough as it is! _

_**Hunk3141** : So is everyone being nice? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Yes, MOM! Everyone is fine! Geez, can you guys chill out? I got this, I promise. I gotta go. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Good luck, Casanova. _

_**Hunk3141** : *Cheesenova _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Ugh, Hunk… _

 

* * *

 

“You sure text a lot.” Keith says flatly, eyeing him from across the table where he’s led them—the furthest one from the sliding glass doors and the rest of the party. “Does your mom not like you being out this late or something?”

Without thinking, he responds, “Something like that.”

And he focuses only on these words—even though Keith doesn’t offer a reaction. Even though he simply shrugs and pushes himself up from his seat and away from the table, padding a short distance away and opening a blue-topped cooler that’s sitting precariously close to the edge of the pool.

A pool, which he notes with much embarrassment, is probably twice the size of his and Hunk’s dorm room.

“Diet or regular?” Keith asks him.

He isn’t even sure how he responds, but thankfully, his mouth still manages to make words work that seem to make sense to Keith.

He’s too busy thinking about what Keith must think of him now—as the type of guy who still gets into arguments with his mom about staying out too late. A guy who’s in college and has a job of his own, who pays his own phone bill, but still needs to answer to mommy each time that he wants to have a life.

Does Keith think that he was arguing with his mom last time too? Does Keith think that he’s the kind of person who disrespects his parents? Would Keith like him more if he did?

Would he actually be willing to be rude to his mom if that was true?

The answer is an obvious, instantaneous no, but maybe he should keep that on the down-low until he figures out what sort of familial relationships would be the most attractive to Keith. Maybe he should own up and admit that his best friends are total losers who have nothing better to do on a Saturday night than harass him about having some fun.

Maybe he should stop thinking about all of this and just have a conversation like a normal person, but when Keith sets a soda can in front of him and takes his seat again, it doesn’t seem like he’s in a particularly talkative mood either.

He just stares somewhere off in the distance, as the pool lights and the water reflect in all of the beautiful, deep blue hues of his eyes. He pops the tab of his own drink, but he doesn’t drink it. He only holds it between both hands, pressed into his lap. He gazes out into the night as though he’d rather be anywhere but here right now.

“You… you really don’t like parties, do you?”

It might not be the right thing to say, but it isn’t the wrong thing either. It gets Keith talking without pissing him off. Lance chalks it up as a small victory.

“They’re noisy.” Keith tells him, still staring out into the distance, still watching the night with hard eyes, as though he’s searching desperately for something that he still can’t find. “I’m not very good with people.”

Lance wants to tell him that he agrees, that he also isn’t very good with people. That he always says the wrong thing and messes things up. That he always manages to mangle every fragile relationship that falls into his hands. He wants to tell him that it’s okay though—that someone out there will still manage to find the beauty in him, something that’s worth cherishing and worth looking beyond all of his flaws for. And he thinks of Pidge and Hunk, who have looked after him all this time. Who have stuck their necks out for him, stood by him, provided him with comfort no matter how many times he’s ruined his own life. 

And for a moment, he feels guilty for always being so hard on them. 

For a moment, he almost asks Keith if Shiro is the kind of person who he can rely on. Or if maybe, someday, he could be that sort of person for him too.

But before he can open his mouth, someone is calling out to him. Their words cut through this moment like the sharpened edge of a knife. He’s thrown haphazardly back into the reality where he can’t say the right thing before the opportunity is gone.

“Lance? Lance, is that you?! Holy shit, dude, it’s really Lance!”

He squints desperately to pick through the darkness for the source of that voice. He doesn’t recognize it at first, but his stomach drops nonetheless, because they  _ definitely _ recognize him. 

For a moment, they’re just a shadowy figure lurching around the edge of the pool. They’re a big, hulking mass of black that he can’t decipher in the dark. But they draw nearer and materialize, as Keith stiffens next to him and sits straighter in his seat, as Lance feels his pulse pounding in his throat and the last remnants of heat leave him, replaced quickly with ice in his veins.

Suddenly, he recognizes the person calling out to him, when they step around the edge of the pool and draw near enough that the subtle lighting illuminates their face.

He doesn’t remember the guy’s name. He was a familiar presence in high school—just another smile and another generic laughing jock in a big sea of people who he never ventured far enough out of his little clique with Hunk and Pidge to officially meet.

But Lance still remembers him, painfully clearly.

He remembers his barking laugh. He remembers how he’d told him once, at the tail-end of his junior year,  _ “What’s the big deal, man? You wanted to be popular, and now everyone knows your name!” _

He can feel Keith’s eyes now—the only warmth on his face. And he hates this, every part of this. He hates that he had such big plans for tonight, for his entire life after this. He hates that he thought that moving a measly few hours away from home was enough distance to sever himself from his past.

He hates that Pidge and Hunk were right, on some level. That he should have been more careful. That he should have never expected to be able to do something like this—something fun, something new—without the ghosts of his past tangling themselves into every single part of him.

“Dude, I haven’t seen you in months! Honestly, I think we all thought that you’d disappeared or something! Did you graduate early or did you drop out?”

Lance fumbles with his words. He feels as though a block of lead has been jammed far down into his throat.

Keith’s eyes watch both of them. He can feel them. He can feel a storm brewing inside of Keith that, in this moment, he cannot ever hope to understand. But it’s an overwhelming vibration from across the table. It’s the same feeling that he remembers from many nightmares of monsters grabbing his ankles from under his bed. That split moment in which he’d catch those glowing eyes in the shadows, when he’d know that something terrible was about to happen but he’d be powerless to stop it.

“I—I graduated early,” he says feebly, “extra credits, you know.”

His resounding laugh is a weak, jagged thing. It slices through his mouth as it tumbles out into the empty air. He feels lightheaded and waifish, weightless and helpless like a leaf fluttering in a tornado.

“That’s awesome, man, really. I’m happy for you. You know, I still have your video! I was just talking to some people from the party the other day and we were wondering what you were up to. Can I get a picture with you? They’re gonna be so stoked when they hear that I—”

“Do you mind?”

Time jerks to a stop. It’s a voice—Keith’s voice—that rips through the center of the conversation. And he doesn’t understand it, at first. He can’t even begin to comprehend how Keith’s managed to halt his racing thoughts and stop this moment just as it was headed from bad to worse.

He doesn’t understand why Keith is speaking right now at all.

“You’re kind of interrupting something here,” Keith says, “If you could kindly  _ fuck off _ , we’d like to continue hanging out without some stupid jackass stumbling over here like he owns the place and ruining our good time.”

Keith’s eyes are daggers. He’s stiff and poised, as though he’s just waiting for the opportunity to lash out. And the guy standing in front of them is easily twice his size—a big, meaty thing with arms like hams and fingers that could wrap around Lance’s wrist three times—but Keith doesn’t seem to be even remotely worried.

If anything, it seems as though he’s inviting the challenge.   
Right now, Lance can’t say that he’d bet his money on the jock. He’s seen videos of house cats chasing off bears. He’s seen Pidge when Hunk gets a little too handsy with her sensitive tech. He knows what kind of damage a little thing like Keith is capable of when he’s pushed too hard, and he knows that even meat-headed idiots don’t like the idea of getting their eyes clawed out by guys half their weight.

No one moves for what feels, to Lance, like an eternity. He listens to the water filtering in the pool, to the music muffled from inside of the house. He listens to the dissonant conversations, just far enough away that he can’t quite understand them, and he waits.

Because he couldn’t speak right now, even if he wanted to.

Keith is a fire-breathing dragon. He’s a cobra coiled to strike. He’s a black stain in this perfectly manicured house, a strange presence who seems as though he isn’t even at home with himself.

But right now, he’s a knight in shining armor.

Right now, he’s a hero raising his mighty sword.

The other guy doesn’t seem as though he knows what to do. Lance remembers that about him—that he only ever expected nice things from other people. That he thought that everyone would play along, that they’d think that his jokes were funny, and he could get away with anything with a wink and a charming smile.

And it had worked on Lance too, back then. When the guy had wrapped an arm around his shoulders and told him that the video wasn’t a big deal. He’d laughed along with it even when his chest had felt as though it was going to cave in. He’d played his role because he’d felt like he was supposed to. He wants to tell himself that he’d react differently now, that he’d stand up for himself, that he’d be more like Keith. 

But he doesn’t know for sure. He doesn’t trust himself to be a better person while he’s standing here like such an idiot and allowing Keith to fight his battles for him.

But the guy doesn’t know how to react now, as Keith stands up to him. He’s rooted in place, mouth slightly agape. Keith shoves up from his seat, and the guy takes a small step back.

“Fine, then we’ll go.”

Keith’s hand is warm, but surprisingly calloused, against Lance’s wrist. He isn’t particularly gentle as he pulls him away. Lance stumbles at first, as he’s jerked in a random direction—still holding his unopened soda in one hand, still struggling to catch up with everything that’s just happened in front of him.

They’re trudging through the grass. Lance hopes that Keith at least knows where he’s going, that there aren’t any lawn ornaments or flowerbeds that he might trip over. He hopes that Keith just took him away because he was annoyed by the conversation.

That hopefully, he has no clue what it was really about.

They’re nearing a fence now—a tall, black blob that he can only see because it cuts off the lights from the street. Keith pauses once they reach it, and thankfully, he ignores the way that Lance doesn’t stop in time and bumps into him.

“I don’t even know that guy,” Keith says, his voice edged with something hot and uncontrollable, something shaky and barely contained, “I don’t know where the Hell Shiro finds some of these people.”

“I went to school with him.” Lance tell him, dumbly.

“Yeah, I got that. Seems like a real winner.”

He almost laughs at that, but Keith’s hand slips from his wrist into his palm. He doesn’t react to it and he doesn’t pull away. Lance’s heart is pounding so hard that he begins to worry that maybe Keith can hear it too.

“Did you drive here? Like, do you have a vehicle?”

“Uh… my…  _ bike _ ?”

They’re making their way from the backyard, around the garage. When they finally reach the driveway, Lance takes a few feeble steps toward his bike, motioning at it helplessly.

Keith raises both eyebrows. He takes a long, deep breath.

And finally, he pulls his hand away from Lance’s.

“Can you ride it when there’s another person with you?”

For a split second, Lance’s mind blanks.

He can only think about how warm Keith’s hand had felt in his, and how much warmer his entire body might feel pressed against him.

Keith is kneeling down now, pressing his fingers into the tires and tugging on the pegs. He cranes his neck to send Lance an expectant look, as though to tell him,  _ “Look, I know that your tiny brain takes forever to catch up basically all the time, but I kind of need an answer now.” _

“U-uh, yeah—yeah, definitely! If I can balance ten pizzas, I can balance a cute guy, right?”

Keith immediately stiffens, somehow even further than before. He’s looking scandalized now, and despite Lance’s own horror at the terrible thing that just left his mouth, he wishes that it weren’t so dark out here—if only so he could see the charming flush that’s surely hot against Keith’s cheeks.

There’s a split second in which they do nothing. Keith furrows his brows and clears his throat, shaking his head and busying himself with fiddling with a few random spots on the bike. And Lance almost laughs at how ludicrous all of this is—Keith standing up to one of the worst people from his past, but being defeated so easily by a little harmless flirting. Himself, so eager to say inappropriate things, but so tongue-tied when he should be at least brave enough to tell some random loser to leave him alone.

Keith shoves himself to his feet, brushing off his knees.

“Well… can we go then?”

And that’s how it happens.

That’s how Lance dies.

Metaphorically, at least. In the most spiritual sense of the word.

At some point, he imagines that he must have set down his drink. He barely remembers it, as he slides into the seat, as Keith comes up behind him and places his hands awkwardly on his hips.

It doesn’t really matter if the Shiroganes find a random, unopened soda can sitting somewhere in their driveway tomorrow. It doesn’t matter if some jerk who he went to school with goes home and tells his friends that they’re both freaks who can’t take a joke. It doesn’t matter if Pidge and Hunk are worried, or if Rolo really did lie, if Allura thinks that he’s nothing but a cute little dog, or if Shiro finally recognizes him from online.

He’s peddling down the street, with the cold breeze in his hair, Keith’s arms wrapped around his waist. He can feel Keith’s warm breath on the back of his neck, his hair tickling the side of his face. He can feel every line of Keith’s chest, his firm belly, his knees pulled up and stabbing into his backside.

He wonders if he should have saved up for an adult-sized bike.

Or, he wonders, if it’s worth the embarrassment just to be able to feel as much of Keith as possible, all at once.

And he keeps pushing forward, keeps gaining speed.

He’s flying through the darkness of the night, from that awful conversation, from his nerves, from all of the fears and insecurities that have kept him distanced from Keith for far too long.

He imagines that everything is okay, just for now. In this moment, as he’s riding and riding and Keith is holding him so close.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Keith is mumbling grumpily just between his shoulder blades.

Despite everything, right now, he feels alive.

He feels as though he could do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is Provolone! My favorite cheese, shout-out to me! Haha!  
> I really, really enjoyed writing this one, and actually, this is the chapter that was inspired by Dee’s artwork, so I can finally share it! I’m so excited.  
> So the entire idea for this story was birthed when I saw this picture: <https://twitter.com/4everbacon/status/871170704074567680>
> 
> Of course I kinda… took some liberties with the clothing (sorry dee!) because I kinda accidentally moved us on beyond summer, but I still really adored the idea of getting the two of them on a bike together somehow, and I think… I might have went about this in the most convoluted way possible (anyone ever heard of a one-shot? I don’t know her). But I decided, in the long run, that I wanted to write something that evoked the entire “atmosphere” of Dee’s artwork—how fun it is, how light hearted it is. How it kind of just leaves you feeling a little bit better and brighter and resonates with the parts of you that can, you know… fall in love with your local sandwich artist and yell about it to everyone in your groupchat! And every week, I really hope that I can shoot even a fraction as high as Dee’s art, so… I hope this story kinda leaves you guys feeling a little happier too!
> 
> Anyway, this is getting very long so just one more quick note! I know that next week is US Thanksgiving, and this chapter is due to be posted on Black Friday. But luckily for everyone (haha), I’m more of a “stay in and don’t shop” kinda gal, so this story will be posted at its regular time.
> 
> For my American readers, a happy and safe Thanksgiving to all of you! And for everyone, as always, thank you so much for reading! See you guys next week!


	8. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight’s Specials: epiphanies and shocking revelations.

After riding his bike through the winding paths and shallows hills surrounding Keith’s neighborhood for what must have been over an hour, Lance finally starts to get tired. Keith laughs at him when he tells him this, making an offhanded comment about how he’d honestly started to suspect that Lance was some kind of superhero with legs of steel, with how long he’s managed to keep going.

Which, of course, pushes Lance to keep going for another twenty minutes, until they find themselves in front of a twenty-four hour convenience store in a part of town that he doesn’t recognize. And they stop inside for a break and some snacks, some caffeine to hopefully keep Lance going long enough that he might be able to get them back to Keith’s house later on.

He picks out an over-sized energy drink for himself. After so much drama and so much more physical activity than he’d been expecting of tonight, he tells himself that he deserves it, _needs_ it even. And he grabs a bag of gummy worms for good measure—one big enough that he can claim later on that he’s too full to finish it, so maybe Keith will share some too.

Keith realizes, only after he’s filled a jumbo-cup with raspberry slushie and grabbed a candy bar from the shelf, that his wallet is still in his uniform pants back home. And he stands there awkwardly for a long moment, his cheeks dusted pink and his brows dropping low, as though he isn’t really quite sure what to do with himself now.

Lance is more than eager to pay. He tells Keith, in his most convincing of suave, James Bond-esque voices, that he doesn’t work every weekend at a minimum wage job just so he can keep his riches all to himself.

“It’s nice to be able to buy your buddies stuff sometimes, right? It’s not a big deal.”

And he’s trapped in the bars of his own word choice—”buddy”, of all things. He nearly kicks himself for making things so easy on Keith here, friend-zoning himself before the guy even has to lift a finger to reject him.

He can already hear Pidge’s voice echoing around in his thoughts, exhausted and ever-so patronizing, _‘Please tell me that you didn’t unironically use the word “friend-zone” just now. Please tell me that you aren’t really delving into even deeper and deeper levels of depravity as we speak.’_

He doesn’t have a chance to bicker with this imaginary Pidge, because Keith is moving to put away his things. He places the candy bar regretfully back on the shelf, fiddling with the lid of his cup and hesitating for a moment before dropping his shoulders and turning it to the side as though to pour it out in the tray beneath the soda nozzles.

But Lance stops this calamity just before it happens. He practically lunges forward and places his hand on Keith’s wrist—ignoring the stammering of his own heart, the heat rising under his skin.

“Dude, seriously, I got this. It’s nothing!”

Keith’s responding glare is so hot that it feels, for a moment, as though it’s physically branded him.

“I don’t take hand-outs,” Keith nearly growls, “I’m not a charity case. I just forgot my wallet.”

Lance would like to think that he went about these next few moments with utmost grace, but after a lengthy, heated argument and a lot of dirty looks from the clerk, he can at least walk away from this situation with the pride of knowing that he’d eventually convinced Keith to let him to pay.

It doesn’t matter how hard he’s shaking, or how he’d nearly pissed his pants three times when Keith jerked forward and seemed, momentarily, as though he might actually make things physical.

And it doesn’t matter that he’d only won this argument because he’d promised that he’d let Keith pay him back later. He still feels a swell of joy when Keith moodily sets his things next to his own, slinks off with his arms crossed over his chest as Lance hands the clerk his card.

Because he’s paying for Keith’s late, late dinner. They’re wandering outside and finding a comfortable place to sit together and relax.

It’s a late-night picnic under the a blanket of star-speckled sky. It’s a date if he ever saw one, there’s absolutely no doubt about it.

And they’re sitting together now, on the curb just outside of the automatic doors, eating their snacks and drinking their drinks, gazing up beyond the neon lighted signs and the streetlamps to admire constellations stretching out over the black canvas of the night.

His phone is a frenzy of vibrations in his pocket, but he tries his best to ignore it. Keith sends a curious look his way, hollowing his cheeks as he reaches the end of his drink at a speed that makes Lance’s head ache, just watching him. His lips are stained blue, Lance notices. He wonders if it might come off on him too. He wonders what Hunk would say to him tomorrow if he came back to their dorm with a mysteriously purple-smudged mouth.

“Someone is really worried about you,” Keith says, cutting off that train of thought just before it goes in less appropriate directions.

“Yeah, uh.” He laughs, fumbling around in his pocket to pull out his phone. He holds down the power button, shutting it off before shoving it back in its place. “My friends, they uh… they get worried when I go out like this.”

“Is it because of that video?”

Ouch. Keith really isn’t one to pull his punches. He sucks in a quaky breath, allowing the the salt in these freshly-opened wounds to sizzle out into a dull ache. He isn’t particularly surprised that Keith was listening to his conversation back there, and he’s even less surprised that he was able to connect the obvious dots and figure out what was going on.

But it’s still a sensitive subject, as much as he hates to admit it. And it definitely isn’t the kind of thing that he’d hoped that he could talk to Keith about during their first ever outing alone together.

He feels heat pooling his cheeks, and his heart flutters at the mere thought of any of it. He shuffles a bit where he’s sitting, his backside suddenly numb and his legs prickly and exhausted.

It’s an internal struggle not to get too defensive too fast, but the quiet between them isn’t an oppressive one. Keith isn’t asking him how he feels about any of this, implying that he should be feeling anything at all.

He isn’t lecturing him and he isn’t coddling him. He isn’t treating him like he’s a broken and repaired thing that needs to be handled with care.

Even his nosiness is charming. And as silly as Lance feels admitting it even silently to himself, he’s buzzing with excitement at the mere concept of Keith wanting to know _anything_ about his life.

“Yeah, it’s… because of the video.”

They sit together, silent again for a long thread of time. Lance wishes that he were man enough to tell Keith that it’s okay, that he isn’t offended. It doesn’t hurt his feelings anymore. The scene that he’d witnessed earlier was just a fluke—just the ugly byproduct of seeing one of those terrible, familiar faces after thinking that he’d finally gotten away from all of it. It won’t happen again, is what he wants to tell him.

_You don’t have to worry about me._

Keith is sending him a series of timid glances. He can see his head darting about just out of the corner of his eye—a blacker blob against the dark backdrop of the night.

“Look, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but—”

“No.” Lance raises a hand in the air, but his eyes are fixed firmly on his own drink in his hands. “It’s okay… It’s just—it’s really stupid, honestly. It was supposed to be funny, but then my parents found out about it and blew it way out of proportion. They called the school board and complained, made a big deal out of it. But, I mean, I was kind of part of it, so it’s not like I can complain about it now, right?”

When he risks a look in Keith’s direction, he’s surprised by how wide his eyes are. He’s watching him intently, biting the inside of his cheek, as though he might want to say something. But his stare is unyielding, powerful and irresistible. Lance wants nothing more right now than to give him everything that he could ever ask for.

He’d stand up on the tips of his toes and reach far into the sky. He’d wrap his fingers around a star, pull it down to Earth just so Keith could finally have something personal to put in his empty bedroom. He’d mount his bike and take Keith anywhere, ride for hours and hours until the two of them were lost together—start a new life under a fake name, adopt some kids, work three jobs and buy a nice house with a white picket fence. He’d recite every corny line from all of his favorite rom-coms, write sonnets about the gorgeous, hidden hues of Keith’s eyes. He lay himself bare and vulnerable, he’d fight or he’d cry. He’d run to the ends of the Earth and back again, if only Keith asked it of him.

Instead, he tells an embarrassing story. He makes a fool out of himself, just because that’s what Keith seems to want from him right now.

“I really wanted to be popular in high school,” he says, “and I had a huge crush on this cute girl. She was smart, and pretty, and so out of my league… but, of course, I was too stupid to see it back then.”

He laughs then, short and hollow. He tips his head back and stares up into the darkness between the stars.

And right now, as he tells this story to another person for the very first time, he wonders if he’s nothing but those black gaps. He wonders if he’s nothing more than the darkness that amplifies the light—just an unassuming, unremarkable face in the background of a movie. Because Keith is dangerous and he’s beautiful. He’s mysterious and intoxicating, and everything that Lance himself could never hope to be.

And he wonders if it’s really so bad to be a forgettable face, to be the foundation that holds up the real heroes of the universe. He wonders if it’s really so bad to be a disposable character, if only so he can share this moment in Keith’s own story.

If only so, for a fleeting moment, he can have experiences like this.

If maybe, this pitiful hope is enough for a person like himself. If he can string himself along for the rest of his life, tethered to the mere concept of being loved and accepted by someone else.

If maybe, someday, Keith will move on from this and meet another beautiful person. If maybe the mark that Lance will leave on him tonight could never be quite as brilliant and permanent as the mark that Keith’s left on him.

“I wrote her a love letter this one day, right around the end of sophomore year. And I thought, maybe she liked it because she met me after class and invited me to this party that she was having by this lake in town. I thought, you know, _‘Wow, maybe this is it! Maybe I’ll finally get to hang out with the popular kids!’_ ”

Keith is silent beside him, but he can feel those eyes on him. He feels as though, later on, he might go home and find that they’ve branded holes into the side of his face.

He feels a little bit like a goldfish being watched through its tank by a cat. As though he’s safe, for now, if he hides far enough away from the surface. If somehow, he can resist the urge to breach into the air, only to find himself trapped between Keith’s claws.

And he isn’t even sure what that surface is right now—if it’s the truth: that all of this still upsets him. That it was just as unfunny and cruel back then as it feels right now, that it nearly ruined his life.

Or if maybe the danger is Keith himself, who still seems more godlike than human, even with blue-tinted lips. Even as he continues to fiddle with his empty cup as though he can conjure more slushie into the bottom of it if he only glares at it hard enough.

And he isn’t even sure how Keith could be the surface and the cat all at once in this silly metaphor, but somehow, it still makes perfect sense.

Because right now, and for the last few weeks, Keith has been everything to him.

“So,” he clears his throat, chasing away his sudden anxiety and a very startling, overwhelming train of thought, “when I showed up, she was the only one there. Honestly, I kind of thought that something was up at that point, but I was just so excited that I got some time alone with the girl I liked, so I guess I just ignored it. Then, uh… she suggested that we go skinny dipping. She said that she did it with her friends all the time and they never got caught, so it would be fine.”

He draws in a heavy breath, closing his eyes. She’d told him that she was going into the woods to get ready, that she’d meet him in the water and that he should get undressed and wait for her. She’d kissed him on the cheek then—the first time that anyone had ever touched him like that. The first time that anyone had ever kissed him.

He feels like an idiot now, but back then, his veins had been on fire.

He’d felt, in that moment, as though he were a man alone, walking on the moon. Bigger and stronger and _better_ than he’d ever felt before.

“When I took my clothes off, a bunch of her friends showed up and stole them. They left me there like that, like… ten miles away from my house, naked in the middle of the night.”

There’s laughter again—strained laughter, sad laughter. He doesn’t even know why he’s laughing right now. He doesn’t know why he wants so badly for Keith to find any of this funny.

“So I guess someone took a video of me chasing after them and, uh… I was so embarrassed and I was young and stupid, so I was… I was _crying_ too.”

He doesn’t know why he admitted that part. Keith probably won’t ever see the video. He can’t find it online anymore. He could have left that out and Keith would’ve never needed to know.

But there’s integrity to telling this correctly, he reasons with himself. For whatever purpose, he just wants Keith to understand right now. He wants to know if someone like Keith would find all of this hilarious, just like that girl did, just as her friends did.

Just as everyone else did, but Hunk and Pidge. Just like everyone but his parents and the two of them have been trying to convince him for years.

A small, pathetic part of him hopes that Keith will brush it off. That he’ll tell Lance that it wasn’t a big deal. That it was harmless fun, even, and that he’s been spending all this time being hung up on something that a normal person would have gotten over easily.

He hopes that Keith will laugh at any of it, that he’ll misunderstand how hard all of this is to admit.

And he doesn’t understand that part of him, because the words sound different when he says them out loud. It sounds different when no one else is laughing, when Keith is only staring at him with growing intensity, that thunderous anger emanating off of him in nearly tangible waves.

“They ended up passing the video around school, and I played along with it at first, until someone sent it to my mom’s email and she flipped out. She went _apeshit_ over that video. I didn’t think she’d ever let me out of the house ever again… But she almost made me transfer schools. I took a month off anyway, and I ended up having to get a tutor because I was so behind when I came back.”

He doesn’t like how many details he’s leaving out now, but he already feels as though he’s said too much. He doesn’t tell Keith about how his chest had felt like a cavern caving in, how the world around him had been thick and airless—a tightly-sealed package wrapped around his head and smothering him for months. He doesn’t talk about how fresh the air had felt here, when he’d finally gotten away. He doesn’t tell Keith how all of his pointless crushes have felt like nothing but distractions up until now, as though he’s been emulating feeling, pretending to be normal, until the first time that he looked Keith in the eyes.

He already feels as though he’s thoroughly wrecked his reputation in Keith’s eyes, to an irredeemable level. To the point where any meager hope that he’d ever had of asking the guy out has been completely obliterated.

He shrugs with manufactured nonchalance. And even though his voice shakes, he says, so much quieter than before, ”So... I guess that’s it. Like I said, it’s pretty stupid, I mean, what did I expect, right? But now my friends act like I’m made out of glass or something. Like every person I have a crush on from now on is gonna play some mean prank on me.”

There’s a whole lot of quiet after that. He feels strange—as though he’s just unloaded a heavy package that he’s been carrying on his back, all this time, without even realizing it. As though he’s freer now—as though Pidge was right all along, in all of her sarcasm, in all of her stupid jokes.

As though the truth really did set him free, along with embarrassing him to the point where he wants nothing more than to melt into the cracks in the concrete and never have to look Keith in the face ever again.

He can feel the pulse of his fingertips against the pavement. He can feel his blood rushing in his ears. He realizes now that he’ll have to tell this story to everyone who he meets eventually, if he ever wants to be truly genuine with another person. If he ever wants to give himself to someone else completely, this ugly blemish on his life will need to be rubbed again and again, until hopefully, someday, it isn’t there at all anymore.

“There’s something that I don’t understand,” Keith says suddenly, and his voice is such an unexpected addition to Lance’s already overstimulated psyche that he jumps at the sound of it.

He snaps his head to the side, the sheer force of his surprise enough that he barely feels humiliated at all. That he can actually look Keith in the eyes without shirking away in shame.

Keith takes his silence as an admission to continue, setting his cup beside him and glowering hard at the ground between his feet.

“What did you mean when you said that she was _‘out of your league’_? How could such a shitty person possibly be better than you?”

“W-well, I mean, she was really pretty and everyone liked her, and—”

“Being _‘pretty’_ doesn’t make her better than you. I’ve only seen you a few times and I can already tell that you’re a billion miles out of her league. I—I mean, you’re not an asshole, you always clean your table when you’re done eating, you can ride a bike really well, and you waited around for Allura to answer the door for like twenty minutes even though you could have just left!”

Keith’s strange choice of compliments throw Lance so off-guard that he forgets that he’s supposed to be mortified right now. He wonders if these are somehow the sorts of qualities that Keith thinks make someone a good person. If, for whatever reason, being able to ride a bike makes him more worthy of being loved than a girl who turned heads with her good looks all through high school.

He almost laughs, but Keith is standing now, his fists shaking at his sides. Lance is slightly worried that this might be the moment in which he actually gets punched, this might be the final straw before Keith explodes and wails on him relentlessly.

But Keith jerks away from him mechanically. He’s vibrating with anger, shaking desperately under the puddle of the streetlamps’ light. He stomps his foot hard against the ground, whipping around suddenly and yelling so loud that his voice echoes through the quiet emptiness of the parking lot.

“You’re _always_ better than the people who hurt you! _Every. single. fucking. time._ If someone doesn’t like you or doesn’t want you around, they’re a piece of shit and they don’t deserve you! You’re so much better than her—than _all of them_ ! They screwed up and they have to live with being shitty people, but you’re bigger than that! You’re bigger and you’re better and you’re always going to end up being happier than them in the end because _they_ were the ones who left you behind!”

Keith’s voice cracks near the end of his sentence. His shoulders heave with each labored breath that he drags in and out. The curse that leaves his lips is tapered off—rattled with nerves and pushed hard out of his lungs.

Lance sits still, watching him with wide eyes.

As he wraps his mind around everything that’s unfolding in front of him, suddenly, it starts to sound as though maybe, Keith isn’t just talking about an embarrassing video and a bunch of jerks in high school anymore.

Suddenly, Lance wonders if maybe Keith might be trying to reassure himself of something too.

It’s something about the pitch of his voice, growing higher and more rushed, more panicked as he’d raved. It’s something about the glassiness of his eyes, the color on his cheeks, and the way that he has his fists clasped so tightly at his sides that Lance can see the indentations of his tendons clear and stiff and trembling through the paper-white of his skin.

But even still, his words pang in Lance’s chest. He feels as though the night around him is lighter, as though the streetlamps and the neon are casting nothing short of a halo right above the fluffy strands of Keith’s unruly hair.

“I—I know, Keith,” he says, slowly, carefully—his voice weaker and wetter than he wishes that it could be right now, “Thank you, but, uh… You know… do you—do you wanna talk too? Like, about the Shiroganes or something? How you ended up there?”

It might help, is what he thinks. Tonight is shaping up to be a night of healing—a night where he unloads his baggage and takes on Keith’s. A night where the two of them finally connect, after so many lost moments and missed opportunities.

A night in which, maybe, they can finally begin to understand each other.

The tension eases from Keith’s shoulders, and slowly, he sits. He’s a little bit further away now, more wrapped around himself. He’s barely taking up any room on the curb at all, and he’s still trembling slightly.

From what might as well be thin air, as far as Lance is concerned, he pulls out his forgotten candybar and begins fidgeting with the paper. Lance suddenly remembers that he’d bought that over-sized bag of gummy worms, but he doesn’t feel particularly hungry right now. Idly, as he waits for Keith to begin speaking, he wonders where he might be able to stash it once he gets back on his bike again, and if he might get another opportunity to share it with Keith before the night is over.

“There isn’t a lot to say about that.” Keith says, in skittish sort of way that pinches Lance’s heart. His eyes are trained low and half-lidded, his jaw is a stiff line as he draws in a deep sigh. “I don’t remember my mom. She took off before I knew her. My dad used to say that she was just _like that_ — _”flighty”_ , I guess. That’s what he used to call her. And my dad—I don’t know where he went. Somewhere better, I guess. I went to this group home for a few years, got passed around to a couple different foster families. Then… The Shiroganes took me in two years ago. I still don’t really get why. I don’t know if they asked for the worst kid or what, but they still act like they’re living some stupid dream life even though I’m always fucking everything up.”

There’s another hurricane stirring behind his eyes. He wavers, for a mere moment, as he squeezes the candy bar so tightly in his fists that it’s instantly pulverized.

“Your dad just… _left_ ?” Lance feels guilty for interrupting, but he’s having trouble imagining it. How would someone just leave a child alone? How _could_ they?

“I guess so? I woke up one day and he wasn’t there anymore. I still took the bus to school and made dinner or whatever for a while, but eventually our landlady called child services. Something about his rent payment being two months late and she was _‘worried about the state of his child’,_ or something stupid like that. So they took me.”

Lance hums quietly, as though he understands. He can’t imagine how he would have handled it, waking up one day to a silent house. Pulling himself out of his bed to the absence of his mother’s delicious breakfast, to the oppressive quiet in place of so many loud, happy voices. How it might feel to come home in the evening after school, to walk back or ride the bus alone. To go to bed, unsure of where his family had gone, why they’d left him behind.

He can’t wrap his head around it, but it hurts.

It hurts so much that he has to physically restrain himself from leaping forward and pulling Keith into his arms.

Keith is practically a statue now, as though he’s terrified of moving. As though he thinks that Lance is going to laugh at him, or call him names. As though any of this could possibly make Lance think less of him somehow.

He looks as though he’s preparing himself for anything but kindness, but even still, he continues.

“So… Shiro’s family took me in, and I guess it’s fine. They didn’t care when I got suspended for fighting, or when I broke things when I got mad. They just kept saying that they were here for me if I wanted to talk, and they tried to sign me up for a bunch of stupid classes and private lessons to distract me or something. It’s like, no matter what I do, they just keep acting like it’s normal. They don’t even care that I’m not in college like everyone else. Shiro’s the only one who ever harasses me about enrolling or _“applying myself”_. I just… don’t get it. I don’t get them.”

He’s muttering now, about how pointless everything is. About parents who don’t push their children to be better people, about how even his worst foster parents at least had the decency to be disappointed in him when he clearly did something wrong.

And Lance doesn’t like thinking about the “worst foster parents”. He doesn’t like imagining Keith at ten years old, or eleven or twelve—a Keith who lived in a group home, a Keith who lived alone for days before anyone noticed that something was wrong. He doesn’t like thinking of the life that Keith might have lived while he was so worried about being popular, about having the coolest toys, and dating the cutest girls.

And he wishes that he could call his mom right now and tell her that he loves her. He wishes that he could do something, _anything_ , but sit here and listen to all of this without ever being able to understand how it must have felt to live through it.

And Keith adds, as more of a murmur of his own thoughts than actual conversation, _“What sorts of parents don’t even care if their loser kid doesn’t wanna go to college?”_

Lance leans back with his palms against the concrete. He breathes in deeply, pushing the air out between his teeth with a quiet whistle.

“Well, do you want to go to college?”

After a pause, in which he can feel Keith moving about uncomfortably next to him, Keith says, stiffly, defensively, “I guess I wouldn’t mind trying it.”

“Then you should go to college. Who cares if the Shiroganes want you to or not? If you want to do it, do it for you.”

Keith grumbles a bit, but inevitably, he seems to accept it. Lance allows his gaze to stray, from the clerk inside of the convenience store sweeping the floor, to the cars passing slowly on the street across the parking lot. To the stars twinkling above them, to Keith sitting next to him, dragging his straw around in the bottom of his empty cup again.

“Can I ask you something? I mean, something kind of random?”

Keith tips his head to the side, his frown twitching.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Why do you always give me extra cheese? You know, like, when I come into the Deli. You always give me extra cheese.”

Keith stares at him blankly. His fingers still against his straw, his brows dropping low against his eyes and knitting together.

“I… _what_?”

“The extra cheese!” Lance shoots up, sitting straight and leaning forward toward Keith. He resists the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Every time that I come to the Deli, you always give me more cheese than you give anyone else! I’ve _watched you_ , Keith! I’ve seen you do it!”

Keith leans back a little, as though he’s worried that Lance might lunge at him. And maybe he will, he isn’t so sure right now. Suddenly, he feels as though he really is in an alternate dimension. As though the Shiroganes’ hallway actually was some sort of rabbit hole and he’s tumbled out into a universe where everything is exactly the same, except cheese somehow doesn’t exist anymore.

“ _E-extra cheese_?” Keith jerks his head downward, mumbling the words again under his breath in disbelief. He seems as though he’s thinking very hard for a moment, before the proverbial light bulb flicks on in his head and he raises his gaze to meet Lance’s.

And Lance thinks that maybe, finally, he’ll get his answer. After all this time spent wondering.

Maybe Keith will admit that he’s been admiring him since that very first day as well.

A car skitters down the road, the tires squealing noisily as the driver accelerates. He can hear crickets chirping somewhere off in the distance.

This moment feels frightfully important. It feels as though his entire life is paused now, as he holds his breath, as he feels the world slowing down around him and he can focus on nothing but the words forming on Keith’s lips.

“You always order the Chicken-Bacon Double,” Keith tells him, slowly and pointedly, as though he’s still having trouble wrapping his head around any of this, “The _double_ means double cheese. That’s not extra, it’s just… how much cheese is supposed to come on it.”

He seems so confused now, as he stares blankly back at Lance. He surely has no idea of all of the thunderous thoughts that are banging around, so deafening and so horrible and so overwhelming, inside of Lance’s head.

“I wondered why you always ordered that particular sandwich,” Keith adds, tapping his chin with his straw, “I just thought that you really liked bacon.”

There have been many times tonight in which Lance has questioned whether or not he’ll survive.

There have been countless times in which he’s wondered if he'd died and gone to heaven.

But as Keith shrugs and turns back to messing with his cup, as the clerk peers out of the front doors at them as though he’s wondering if he should tell them to stop loitering—as Lance’s legs continue to ache and his heart feels weighed down with a thousand pounds of jagged stone—

For the first time since the last time that he fumbled an encounter with Keith, once again, he wishes that he were dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week’s title, Blue Cheese, is the favorite of **YoooItsLeigh**! So shout-out to them, and thank you so much for sharing your favorite with me!
> 
> So this chapter started out at around 3k words. Then I edited it and added another 1k, then edited it again and added another 1k… and frankly, it’s gotten to the point where I’m kind of afraid to touch it again! So I hope that you guys enjoyed it, and I hope that you’ve had a great week!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	9. Camembert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: The strangest possible rejection that Lance has ever received.

The bike ride back to Keith’s house isn’t nearly as painful as Lance would have expected, all things considered. His cheeks stop burning once Keith climbs back onto the bike behind him, once he feels those firm arms wrapping around him and Keith’s soft hair tickling the back of his neck.

He imagines that his brain won’t allow anything but excitement with a cute guy sitting this close, but he’s positive that the embarrassment and the shame will return tenfold once he’s all alone, with nothing but Hunk chatting to Shay across the room, his bed, and his own thoughts to keep him distracted.

But for now, it’s nice. Just sitting here together, moving in their own little bubble through the rest of the silent world. That freeing, flying feeling returns to him. That feeling as though, as long as Keith stays here with him, he might be able to take on the world.

By the time that both of them manage to navigate their way through town, by the time that they stop bickering about directions and he finally accepts that maybe Keith knows what he’s talking about (despite suggesting more left turns than Lance remembers taking to get there), the sun is beginning to peek out behind the trees. The chilliness of the previous night is slowly fading out into the warmth of early fall.

He recognizes Keith’s neighborhood, at the very least, and he makes _another_ left turn through the rose-bush framed streets, beyond the idyllic houses, beyond the paperboy tossing bundles from his bike from yard to yard. He’s stowed the gummy worms under the waistband of his pants, and they feel too tight there. Too heavy, they’re weighing him down on his right side. He’s nearly toppled over three times because of it, and now, even though he’s managed to regain his bearings and get used to the feeling of it, Keith’s arms are still wrapped with bone-bruising intensity around his waist.

The beautifully landscaped yards melt together—the orange-cast sky, the big, fluffy clouds. The green, green grass and the perfectly shaped hedges. The expensive cars warming up in their driveways, the pastel-colored mailboxes—they’re nothing but a big blob of color. They’re nothing but a scribbled backdrop as he focuses only on the feeling of Keith’s heart beating against his back.

The soda can is still sitting in Keith’s driveway when they pull in. He winds around the parked cars, coasts all the way to the garage door before placing a foot on the ground to stop them. Keith hesitates for a moment before removing his arms, and awkwardly, the two of them shuffle off and stand on opposite sides of his bike—neither of them quite sure of what to say.

“U-uh, here.” Lance pulls the bag of gummy worms out of his pants, shoving it against Keith’s chest. “P-Please, I wanted to share them with you earlier, but… I don’t wanna have to ride home carrying them.”

Keith takes the bag tentatively. The plastic crinkles in his hands.

“This is a two pound bag,” he says, “Why the Hell did you buy so much if you didn’t want to carry it?”

Keith doesn’t pick up on romantic subtleties, this is something that Lance has learned tonight. He isn’t purposefully belligerent, he just doesn’t understand it. He seems as though he’s always eager to react to an insult, like he’s always searching for the sarcasm in any compliment, and that thought twinges in Lance’s chest hard enough that he immediately chooses to stop thinking about it.

But he wonders if anyone has ever asked Keith out before, if anyone has ever admitted to him that they had a crush on him.

On one hand, he’s absolutely breathtaking, even after a night of riding around on the back of a bike in the cold. He’s standing across from Lance now, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he fiddles with the bag against his chest. There’s a chilly flush on the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His hair has been jostled by the breeze, pushed back as though he’s posing for some kind of photo shoot with a fan just feet away, blowing gently into his face.

There are goose pimples budding over his arms—but they still look as smooth as they feel. As soft and velvety and brushed with downy hairs that are so light that Lance can barely make them out unless the sun hits them just right.

As the day brightens, his skin glows golden. His eyes are lighter, eclipsed by droopy, tired eyelids and the subtle shadow of dark circles hollowed underneath.

His lips are jutted out and oh-so kissable, peachy and full. And Lance wonders how it might feel to touch them. He wonders if anyone has ever tried it before.

He shakes his head, retracing his thoughts to figure out what led him to this place.

Right, right. The pros and cons of hitting on a guy like Keith.

And on one hand, as he’s spent the last few minutes divulging to himself, Keith is the most beautiful person who he’s ever laid eyes on.

On the other, however, Lance can’t exactly imagine that sort of thing ending well for anyone, if Keith’s generally prickly disposition is any indication of how he might react to being hit on.

He’d react with his fists, surely, if anyone ever tried to hold his hand. And his awkward brusqueness would probably take care of the rest, Lance can’t help but consider, with a small, wry smile.

And he wonders if his careless bluntness is exactly the kind of thing that Keith needs. He wonders if someone else, someone far smoother, someone far better at winning people over—better with words, with so many less embarrassing secrets sleeping in their past—might not be able to crack through Keith’s thick skull at times like these. If maybe Keith is better off with someone who doesn’t know how to beat around the bush.

If, just short of shaking him and screaming his intentions in his face, the best thing that he could do for Keith would be to just tell him exactly what he feels and what he wants.

So, with this idea in mind, he tells Keith, “Well, I was kind of thinking that I’d pay you back for the extra cheese with extra candy, but now it seems like I’ve given you an extra _something_ and you haven’t given me extra _anything_ , so… I think you owe me.”

He plasters on his most charming, most confident grin. In his mind’s eye, he can perfectly envision the little sparkles glinting off of his teeth. The flowers and the hearts that Keith might be imagining materializing around his face.

But, another thing that he’s learned about Keith tonight is that he’s stubborn. Stubborn, bull-headed, borderline impossible at times.

The bag is shoved roughly back into his arms.

“Then I don’t want them,“ Keith practically spits, “You can’t just give someone a gift then tell them that they owe you! It’s not a gift then! That’s just bartering!”

Shaking Keith starts to feel more and more tempting. He shoves the bag back towards him again.

“N-no, listen! I was just going to say that you owe me another date, okay?! Can you _please_ , just… take the gummy worms and go on another date with me?”

Keith’s cheeks are immediately pinker. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open. He grasps the bag again, loosely against his chest, blinks two or three times in slow succession when Lance pulls his arms away a second time.

“A _date_ ?” He whispers in disbelief, “was that… was that a _date_?”

Lance almost laughs. He shoves those lingering feelings of self-doubt and insecurity deep down inside of him, reminding himself that Keith isn’t turning him down on purpose. He isn’t trying to insult him and he isn’t disinterested—at least, that’s what he convinces himself. That’s what he tells himself in order to stay put, in order to stand his ground and keep trying no matter how much his instincts are telling him just to mount his bike and speed away.

“I guess it doesn’t have to be if you don’t want it to be,” he replies, forcing himself to stay calm, to be casual. To act as though all of this isn’t just about the most mortifying thing that he’s ever done before, “But… if you want to think of it as a date, then… will you go on another date with me?”

Keith’s brows are low and knitted together. The bag in his hands squeaks as he grips it tighter against his chest. He looks from Lance’s face to the bike between them, flicks his gaze to the sky and sucks in a shallow breath. His cheeks grow ever-redder, as he bites his lip and taps his foot lightly against the ground.

It seems to Lance as though he’s trying to calm himself down again. He wonders which classes the Shiroganes signed him up for that might have taught him to do that sort of thing. The thought alone of Keith suffering through some sort of “zen yoga” class is enough to calm his nerves.

Keith, dressed in a tight-fitting shirt and dark yoga pants. Keith bending over into downward dog.

Keith, flexible and graceful, leaning back into an inhuman position, tied around himself like the cutest pretzel Lance has ever seen.

His heart thumps hard in his chest.

 _“Imagine everyone naked if you’re nervous,”_ is what his dad used to tell him when he was psyching himself out over a presentation in high school.

Right now, he finds, that isn’t exactly doing a good job of cooling him down.

“Uh, yeah, s-sure... “ Keith still isn’t looking him in the eyes. If anything, he’s making a point of looking anywhere but in his general direction. “But, uh—I work a lot. Almost every day, but, uh, I’m off next Saturday, so… I guess we could go out then.”

Lance nearly cheers, he’s so excited. He almost punches a fist in the air, almost jumps up and taps his heels together, but for the sake of not making Keith regret his decision within seconds of announcing it, he refrains.

“That’s—that’s great,” Lance says instead, his earlier exhaustion miraculously ebbing away, “If you give me your number, I—I could text you and maybe we could schedule a time or something?”

But Keith doesn’t move to pull out his phone, and he stares at Lance for a little bit too long, as though he isn’t entirely sure what he’s talking about. There’s an owlish roundness to his eyes, like he’s suddenly been caught off-guard.

And the dread sets in, because Keith still isn’t making a move for his phone.

He shuffles uncomfortably from foot to foot, clearing his throat.

“I don’t really… _have_ a phone,” he says meekly, rolling his gaze from the ground to the garage.

Lance feels the oxygen in his lungs suddenly sucking out. He flounders for a moment, almost more impressed with how weird of a rejection this has turned out to be than he’s even upset about being rejected.

He starts to say, _“I understand,”_ but Keith cuts him off hurriedly, jumping a little in place in his apparent eagerness.

“B-but I could get one,” he blurts, twitching slightly as his cheeks grow redder and impossibly redder, “I mean, Shiro’s been trying to talk me into getting one for a long time, but I just didn’t really… see the point in it. It’s kind of stupid having a phone when your brother and his girlfriend are your only contacts, but—but I mean… maybe… maybe you could just give me your number and I’ll just… text you when I get a phone.”

Lance watches in utter shock, as Keith goes from speeding through his small speech to slowly staving off the last few words. He grows quieter, scuffing his foot against the ground as it becomes more and more obvious that he’s only making himself feel more moronic as he continues to talk.

Lance is familiar with these sorts of train wreck sentences, but it doesn’t make this any less adorable.

All this time, he never would have imagined that someone as tough and unshakable as Keith Kogane could be rattled by a simple date invitation.

All this time, he’s never thought that the quickest way to shake Keith off of that Godly pedestal of his would be to treat him like a normal human being.

It should have been obvious. He mentally kicks himself for getting too wrapped up in his own silly daydreams and expectations to heed the warning signs.

“It’s okay,” he says finally, just as Keith seems to be investing himself in melting down into the concrete, “I think I have a pen on me—”

He pats both of his pockets before digging around inside of one and pulling out a pen. It’s the same one that he’d just given Allura earlier in the night to sign with, and it’s a surreal sort of thought—that he’d been _that Lance_ just hours before this. That he really had no idea that he’d end this night standing across a gigantic driveway with the one and only Keith Kogane—giving him his number so the two of them can go on a real, official date.

“Here, uh, give me your hand.”

Keith clutches the gummy worms to his chest tightly with one arm, before hesitantly reaching forward to offer Lance the other. And Lance forces himself to calm down, to shake as little as possible as he grasps Keith by the wrist and pulls him further toward him. He turns over Keith’s arm until his palm is facing the sky, writing down his number as clearly and gently as he possibly can with a cheap _Sal’s Pizza_ pen on another person’s skin.

“You’d better send me a cute selfie as soon as you get your new phone.” he says as he pulls away, clicking the pen closed and shoving it back into his pocket. He continues holding Keith’s wrist for a moment too long, but Keith doesn’t seem to notice. He seems too busy admiring Lance’s crafty pen-work. “You gotta pull out all of the stops, okay? Peace sign, tongue out, a wink and everything!”

Keith scoffs, finally tugging his arm away to get a better look at the numbers on his wrist. He’s smiling slightly, as the heat fades from his cheeks and he tips his head to the side, reading each number slowly aloud.

“I’m not photogenic,” Keith tells him, and he chooses not to call him out on this lie.

Instead, he blurts out the second worst thing.

“I can’t imagine a babe like you looking bad.”

They both pretend that he didn’t say anything.

And eventually, they say their goodbyes. He mounts his bike and does a small, sloppy salute, kicking back the stand and backing up awkwardly in order to face the street.

Keith watches him with an unreadable expression. He’s silent, as Lance scoots around, as he berates himself for not just turning the stupid thing around before he mounted it, but knowing very well that he’d be even more embarrassed getting off and doing it now. He’s committed to this specifically humiliating thing now, and there’s no going back.

Without warning—just as he’s finally positioned in the right spot to take off toward school, to hastily start rewriting this story in his head so Hunk and Pidge won’t make fun of him too much when he retells it—Keith reaches forward, grabbing a handlebar to still him just before he pushes forward.

“Can I ask you something random too?” He asks, suddenly serious. Suddenly frowning as though he’s thinking of something very important.

Lance nods dumbly, because his thoughts are a flurry of every possibility. Every reasonable thing that Keith might want to ask him after everything that’s already been said between them.

“When you asked why I was giving you extra cheese… did you think that I was giving you extra because I thought that you were cute or something?”

His ears burn, and his heart thumps in his chest. His palms feel suddenly sweaty around the handlebars, so much so that he nearly slips off of them.

Momentarily, he thinks to lie. He thinks to brush this off and pretend that Keith’s just being too cocky and reading into all of this too much.

But he thinks about Keith’s expression in front of the convenience store—how he’d shaken so violently in his anger, all on his behalf. How he’d bellowed at him that he was worthy of happiness, of _love_ , even, despite everything that Lance had told him.

How Keith had been honest with him then, how he’d bared his soul without fear of the repercussions.

And it’s not fair, he thinks, to back away now. It’s not fair to cover all of this up when he’s already come so far.

“I, uh… Yeah, I—I did.”

It’s all so dumb. He should have expected this. He should have just put his feelings out there before it came to this. Before Keith figured out that he’s been stalking him all this time, and surely, by now, he’s decided that Lance is far too creepy and clingy to ever pursue a relationship with.

He can already imagine how hurriedly Keith will scrub away his number once he gets back in the house.

He can already see himself going to the Deli this Saturday and being carted away by security—or even worse, by a disappointed Shiro, telling him, finally, _“I knew that you were a bad influence on Keith as soon as I realized that you were the guy who added me out of nowhere on Facebook.”_

But Keith doesn’t freak out or run away. He doesn’t call him names or back away nervously, as though he finds any of this alarming. He only nods once, slowly. He doesn’t smile and he doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t let go of the handlebars for a very long stretch of time either.

When he finally does let go, he takes a step backwards, toward the porch. His grin is flat and barely there at all, but Lance finds comfort in it nonetheless.

“I wasn’t giving you extra cheese,” Keith says curtly, “but I did think that you were cute.”

The words hit him like a ton of bricks, but Keith turns and walks away as though it’s nothing. Lance is left drowning behind him, nearly toppling off of his bike, in the throes of a mini-heart attack as Keith makes his way up the stairs and turns to throw a short wave over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you Saturday,” he says flatly, “And I’ll text you. No selfies, but I’ll text.”

And like that, he’s disappeared behind his front door.

Lance sits out in the driveway for what feels like hours.

When he finally regains his bearings enough to scoot away, his front tire catches on his forgotten soda can and sends him flopping unceremoniously to the ground.

Somehow, even that isn’t enough to wipe the cheek-splitting grin off of his face.

 

* * *

 

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I have news. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Is it that you lost your phone and just miraculously found it, because we’ve only been messaging you all night. _

_**Hunk3141**  : We’ve been worried, Lance! How did it go? Was everyone nice? Did you have fun? Please tell me you had fun, man. I don’t think I could take any bad news right now. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Oh my God Hunk, chill. Yes, I had fun. And Pidge, I’m sorry! I went through a lot last night, okay? And I spent like, basically half of it on my bike. _

_**Hunk3141** : On your bike? Lance, why were you on your bike, dude? Did you get kicked out of the party?! Did someone kick you out, Lance?! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Hunk! Please calm down, dude, it’s not like that. I’ll explain everything later, but for now… I have news. The big kind. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Is this the kind of news that’s gonna make up for me staying up all night messaging you when I should have been sleeping? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well… I mean, I have a date with Keith on Saturday… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Okay. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I’m going to call you as soon as Mathletes lets out, and you’re going to tell me everything about this. And then, yeah, I think I can forgive you. _

 

* * *

 

Hunk is still sitting in his desk chair when Lance opens the door to their room. He’s straight up in his seat, his legs pulled up and crossed beneath him. He’s spinning slightly when Lance drags himself in, grinning from ear to ear in a way that Lance can only remember once before this.

And that was when he told Lance that he’d asked Shay out, and she’d said yes. He groans a little in embarrassment, wondering how in the world knowing that Lance has a date could possibly compare to that sort of feeling.

“So?” Hunk asks him, leaning forward eagerly and ignoring the precarious way that the chair wobbles underneath him. “How did it go, dude? Did you get his number? Did you guys eat caviar together?”

Lance lets out a long yawn, stretching his arms above his head before reaching down and grasping the edges of his shirt with exhaustion-weakened hands. He pulls it over his head, kicking off his shoes in random directions before shimmying out of his pants. He pulls on the first pair of pajama pants that he can find—a flannel pair from the laundry basket that smell a little suspicious, but he’s far too zapped of energy to care.

With a look at the clock hanging above Hunk’s desk, he does the sloppy math in his head. If he’s lucky, he can squeeze in a three-hour nap before Pidge calls later on.

He shuffles toward his bed, flopping face-down onto the mattress as soon as he gets close enough.

“Can we talk about this when Pidge calls?” He asks, his voice muffled against his blankets. “I’m sorry, Hunk, but I’m just… really tired.”

He doesn’t have a chance to hear Hunk’s response before he slips off into the fuzzy blackness of sleep.

He dreams sweet dreams of Keith’s timid smile, the warmth of his arms wrapped around him. Of the wind in his hair and Keith’s pulse steady against his back.

And he dreams about the endless possibilities of next weekend, of a real date, one that Keith agreed to readily. Of the two of them eating somewhere nice, seeing a movie, walking the winding sidewalk in town, hand-in-hand, as the evening rolls into night.

It’s serene enough that he wakes up to the buzzing of his phone feeling fully recharged.

And finally, with Hunk at his side and Pidge’s voice loud and excited on speaker-phone, he tells the long tale of the night that he’s still having trouble convincing himself was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like what I did there? With the kinda… bait-and-switch summary? Pretty slick, huh? Yeah, I know, I definitely had everyone very fooled.  
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Camembert isn’t one of my favorite cheeses, but I don’t think I can do a cheese dirty by outright saying that I hate it. 
> 
> So see you guys next week! Hope you enjoyed it!


	10. Asiago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: Late mornings, strange text messages, and the best surprise that Lance might get all week.

At eight in the morning the very next Wednesday, Lance receives a notification on his phone that he thinks, at the time, might be the best thing that he’ll see all day.

It’s an email from the school—an alert about an alleged gas leak in the science building, a warning that all classes will be cancelled until the following Monday. His heart leaps in his chest, and he rolls over, flopping on his back and resting his phone against his belly.

With a long, comfortable stretch, he tips his head over to peer at Hunk, who’s still slumbering peacefully across the room.

“Hey, Hunk,” he calls, sleep still groggy in his voice, “Dude, hey, wake up!”

Hunk rolls over, grumbling and shoving his pillow over his face.

So Lance goes back to sleep, and he doesn’t wake up again until after 10am, when Hunk is rushing to get dressed. He lets him slip out the door, reasons with himself that he can feign innocence or pretend that he didn’t even hear him leave when Hunk returns angrily later on. It’ll be funny watching how frustrated Hunk will be when he stomps back anyway. It’ll be worth it to tell him, _“I tried to warn you!”_ later on.

For now, he stares up at his ceiling, pondering the hunger churning in his stomach and how desperately he’d like to take a shower. He wonders if it would be weird to show up at the Deli—if he’d order the same sandwich out of habit, even after everything that he’s learned.

And he wonders what Keith might say to him then, if he’d write his name down wrong on purpose, if he’d kiss the paper wrapping before he slid it across the counter.

His phone buzzes. He ignores it as he daydreams about all of the possibilities—about all of the things that he could do today, and the next three, between this moment and his inevitable first date.

Hunk wanders back into their room a few minutes into his musings—grumpy and tired and looking somehow even more disheveled than he been when he rushed out.

“You could have warned me, man,” he mutters, slinging his bag from his shoulder onto the floor and stepping on the back of each sneaker, one at a time, to slip them off, “you know I don’t check my phone until lunch.”

Lance offers him nothing but a small, sly grin—tipping his head to the side to watch as Hunk takes off his jacket and tosses it in the laundry basket, before padding over to his computer and pulling out his chair. He wonders if Shay is awake right now, or if Hunk will send her some kind of sappy love-letter that she’ll be surprised by later.

And he wonders if he’ll ever get to a point like that with Keith.

Where he’s comfortable telling him anything. Where he doesn’t feel like such a moron for calling him cute or admitting how important their fleeting interactions have come to be to him.

When, at some point, he’ll be able to send Keith some kind of sugary sweet rambling that he’ll wake up to, without feeling like the most deplorable stalker in the universe.

“Say, Hunk,” he says, as more of a lazy hum than real words floating in the quiet between them, “you’ve been dating Shay for what, three years now?”

Hunk settles himself comfortably into his seat, and he doesn’t look over in Lance’s direction as he jostles his mouse and watches the twisted lines of his screen saver flickering away. He double-clicks something that Lance is sure is the chat icon. Eventually, as a loading screen blackens his desktop wallpaper, he turns his gaze over to meet Lance’s.

“Yeah, why?”

Lance flicks his gaze away in embarrassment, heat pooling his cheeks at the mere thought of asking for advice about any of this.

“I just—uh—” he’s tracing patterns in the speckled design on the ceiling, thinking about all of the stars twinkling in the sky, and Keith’s eyes the other night. He’s remembering how warm Keith’s arms had been around his waist, the slow beating of his heart, the feeling of Keith’s breath hot against the back of his neck. “I just… I was wondering how long you guys were together before you told her that you loved her.”

He feels like a complete moron. Hunk raises an eyebrow, but he has trouble masking the smile that’s threatening to stretch out over his cheeks.

“You’ve really fallen hard for this Keith guy, haven’t you?”

It’s not what he was hoping to hear.

He throws himself up into a sitting position, covering his burning cheeks with his hands before scrubbing them over his face. And he sits here for a moment, reveling in his own mortification and regret, allowing the feelings that Hunk has laid out so tactlessly between them to grow a little bit more comfortable even in his thoughts.

He doesn’t really know a lot about Keith yet, not really.

He doesn’t know if Keith wants kids, if he likes animals. He doesn’t know what his favorite color is, or his favorite flavor of ice cream. He doesn’t know if Keith knows how to swim, if he likes the summer more than the winter, if he’s had one boyfriend or a thousand, if he’s always been so tucked away inside of himself as he is now.

But he knows how to make Keith smile. He knows how to make him laugh.

And he knows what it looks like with Keith folds in on himself, when the weight of the life that’s been built up so tall around him is so daunting and overwhelming that he feels like nothing but a speck of dust on the Shirogane’s otherwise spotless windows.

He knows that Keith feels just as alienated in his life as Lance himself does, sometimes. As though the two of them have been made too loud and too awkward to fit like puzzle pieces with so many other people, as though there will never be a place where either of them can truly hope to belong completely.

And he knows that, deep down, Keith cares a whole lot more about what everyone thinks of him than what he lets on.

He knows that Keith loves the Shirogane’s and he wants to make them proud, even if he still doesn’t know how.

He knows that there’s a gentleness that lives somewhere far beneath all of Keith’s sharp edges—that there’s still some semblance remaining of that kid who doesn’t know where his mom has gone, why his dad left too, how many hands he’ll have to pass through until he finds a place comfortable enough to be called his home.

He knows that Keith likes raspberry slushies, that he’s embarrassed by the mere mention of a date.

And that Keith likes him too, at least a little bit.

That there’s some part of him, maybe just skin deep, or threaded all the way into the depths of his heart, that’s curious about Lance—enough that he’d agreed eagerly to another date.

He wonders if that’s enough to love a person.

If the rest, maybe, is nothing but a fog over the awkward beginnings of their relationship that they can gradually wipe away.

Hunk laughs softly, the wheels of his chair rolling against the floor as he turns himself to face his computer fully. He types a few words before hitting the enter key with a quick, hard tap. And he turns to Lance with an even broader smile than before.

“I said it when I felt it,” he says then, a softness to his eyes that makes Lance feel even more stupid than before, “we’d been together for about six months. She was talking to me about some blueprints that she was working on for class, and I just… I don’t know, I just _knew_. I knew she was the person who I wanted to get old with, you know?”

It sounds a lot deeper to Lance than anything that he’s thought about anyone else before Keith. And he wonders, had a version of himself from earlier this year heard Hunk’s story, if he would have even believed it.

If he would have thought that anything in life was really just as simple as looking at another person as they talked about something that excited them and _knowing_ that, somehow, the universe had crafted them just for him.

He wonders if it’s really too soon to feel like this about Keith. And he wonders if Hunk thinks so too—if he’s telling himself smugly that Lance’s newfound affections are nothing but puppy love, if he’s started typing up an additional message to Shay about how silly and pathetic all of this is.

But Hunk doesn’t laugh at him, and if his message is condescending, he doesn’t give any indication. Lance listens to his fingers clicking against the keys, draws his gaze back up to the ceiling and imagines how Keith had looked last Saturday night—as he wrapped himself up in his own arms against the frigid cold, as his skin had been bathed in the pinks and blues of the neon lighted beer signs in the convenience store window.

As he’d whipped around and yelled, as his fists had shaken at his sides and the entire world had folded together until it was nothing but a blurry backdrop behind Keith’s beautiful, angry eyes glaring down at him.

He draws in a deep breath, willing his heart to stop thumping so terribly loud in his chest. He wonders if Hunk feels this way too, when he thinks about Shay. He wonders if maybe Keith is just a special case—if he’s just so damn beautiful that even the mere memory of him threatens to tear Lance’s entire being apart.

And he wonders how it seems that no one else has noticed Keith—his beauty, the charm in his standoffish disposition, how cute he is, how wonderful it feels to make him smile.

He wonders, with a pang of anxiety in his chest, where it will leave him when the world does eventually realize what a catch someone like Keith Kogane is.

With a long sigh, he rolls over on his side, ignoring the way that his phone slides from his belly and tucks itself underneath him. It vibrates an additional time, and he wonders if Pidge is trying to get ahold of him, if maybe he should just check it and get this over with before she starts getting impatient.

But he’s tired today, despite the extra few hours that he’s slept. He wants nothing more than to laze about in bed until tomorrow, when he’ll hopefully have the strength to pull himself up, dig a clean pair of clothes out of his closet, brush his teeth, and take a shower.

“Did she laugh at you when you told her that you loved her?” he asks slowly, his cheek smashed against his arm, muffling his words, “Shay, I mean. When you told her that you loved her, did she think that you were stupid for saying it at such a weird time?”

Hunk turns to him then, a brow raised. He looks a little offended at first, before he shakes his head and rubs a hand over his eyes. He’d stayed up late last night talking to Shay until the sun peeked through the buildings at the horizon. He looks just about as tired as Lance feels right now.

“Nah, she didn’t laugh. She just kind of… said that she felt that way too. If someone loves you, they aren’t going to think that you’re stupid for loving them too.”

He can’t imagine Keith not thinking that he was the weirdest sort of idiot for doing just about _anything_.

Or, at the very least, not understanding what he was getting at in the first place.

It would take a lot of explaining on his part, after he put his foot in his mouth and rambled off the whole thing. After he accidentally said something rude, something offensive and regrettable that would have Keith readying himself for a fight again. They’d argue then, maybe, like they did about the gummy worms and the date. He’d try to explain in the most silted, idiotic way possible that he was trying to say something nice, and somewhere down the line, the words in his brain and the horrible squawking noises coming out of his mouth were just not adding up.

And after all of the misunderstandings, all of the bickering and the mortifying explanation, maybe, finally, he would make Keith understand what he should have just laid out simply in the first place.

And Keith, surely, would respond, _“Why?”_

He isn’t too sure why that thought hurts his chest so much, but he chooses to ignore it. Instead, he tries to imagine Keith telling him that he loved him—how his face would redden, how he’d jut out his bottom lip. How he’d drag his eyes from spot to spot around them, so adamant not to look at him directly, so determined to play it cool no matter how obvious it might be that he was melting.

He’s too cute, Lance thinks. He can’t stop himself from smiling.

Hunk is typing faster now, hunched down with squared shoulders as he writes out a novel’s worth of sickeningly sweet lines of romantic prose, Lance is sure. He doesn’t talk about his relationship with Shay a lot, and Lance has always wondered if that’s a good or a bad sign. If maybe the biggest sign of a happy relationship is the the fact that Hunk isn’t constantly seeking his validation on the subject.

But Shay is a part of their lives regardless, even though he hadn’t known her very well in school. And he wonders, color heating his cheeks, if maybe someday Keith will find his way in the middle of their tight-knit circle of friends just as she did.

Which leads him back to Pidge, and the third vibration of his phone underneath his arm. He groans quietly, flopping over on his back again before digging the phone back out from underneath him. He isn’t looking forward to today’s lecture, or whatever cheap shot she’s decided to take.

He can imagine that she’s going to antagonize him about their sudden week off, asking him, with much condescension, how many hours he’s going to toil away at the Deli before Keith and his beefcake brother finally get sick of it and escort him out.

He types in his password sloppily, both hands extended above his head as he looks around on his home screen. The chat is empty, save from Hunk’s active icon, signalling that he is, in fact, chatting with Shay in their own private room.

Pidge hasn’t said anything since she logged out last night. He furrows his brows before exiting the app.

At the bottom of the screen, he finally finds the culprit. Next to the little green text bubble, there’s a plump red “+3”.

His mom is the only person who texts him, and she usually waits until the weekend. For a moment, he’s so filled with anxiety that he can’t even click the button to read the messages.

He can already imagine all of the bad news. The sudden deaths in the family, the accidents that his reckless niece and nephew might get into. How precariously his dad drives while drinking his coffee in the morning, how his grandma is surely starting to get up enough in the years that maybe she’d fallen and hurt herself.

But when he does finally garner the courage to open his messaging app, the texts aren’t from his mom. There’s an unknown number at the top of the screen. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up to who he could have given his number to, who might actually text him back.

None of the girls who he chatted up at the beginning of the semester seemed particularly interested. Some of them, he suspects might not have actually logged his number in their phones as they’d claimed.

The meaty jock in his class had promised to text him about future parties, but he imagines that it’s been enough weeks by now that it’s probably not going to happen.

So no girls and no muscle-brains. No random illicit encounters that he can remember outside of his fantasies.

He doesn’t know why it takes him so long to remember Keith. He isn’t sure if it’s sleepiness, or pure denial. It’s been enough days now that he’d been starting to suspect that he’d been let down easy again.

With trembling hands, he opens the messages.

 **10:45 A.M. (unknown number)** : Hey, it’s… me.

 **10:58 A.M. (unknown number)** : Keith, remember? From the Shirogane Deli. You gave me your number so… Here, I guess.

 **11:02 A.M.  (unknown number)** : [photo attachment]

It takes a moment to load the picture. Lance’s life feels as though suddenly, the frame rate has dropped and everything around him is lurching by at clipped half-speed. He feels as though Hunk’s fingers are jerking against the keys so much slower and quieter than before, as though the birds singing and the cars driving by outside are muted and dulled, nearly nonexistent.

He can make out the glossy blackness of Keith’s hair first, as the picture lurches downward. It’s dimly-lit and blurry, and Lance takes a moment to wonder what kind of crappy phone he must have decided on that every edge of the of his hair against the plain, white backdrop is so pixelated.

When the picture finishes loading, for a moment, he can barely breathe. He has trouble convincing himself that any of this is real.

The flat line of Keith’s frown is more pronounced, his cheeks pink, his brows drawn low and knitted together. Two fingers are raised up and close together, and momentarily, he’s not quite sure what kind of symbol Keith is trying to make. The pink tip of his tongue is sticking out from between his lips, one eye closed in such an awkward wink that it almost looks as though he snapped the picture before he was ready.

But his own words come crashing back to him, like cold ocean waves to the shore.

_“You gotta pull out all of the stops, okay? Peace sign, tongue out, a wink and everything!”_

His hands are shaking so desperately that he has to correct his spelling three times before he can send his responding message.

 **11:11 A.M. (me)** : I’m making this my new wallpaper.

As he’s adding Keith’s number to his contacts, his phone buzzes again.

 **11:15 A.M. (Keith)** : Why would you do that? It looks bad.

 **11:16 A.M. (me)** : Then take another one and I’ll use that one instead.

 **11:18 A.M. (Keith)** : Why would you want to use a picture of me?

 **11:19 A.M. (me)** : Are you saying that you wouldn’t set a picture of me as your wallpaper? I’m hurt, Keith. Really.

 **11:25 A.M. (Keith)** : You didn’t send me a picture.

He can’t stop the grin that breaks out over his cheeks, so wide that it aches. He closes out of the texting app, clicking on the camera and raising his phone ever-higher above him. He throws up his own peace sign, winking and sticking out his tongue, in a cuter semblance of Keith’s pose, before snapping a photo.

Before he can feel too ashamed, before his nerves get the better of him and he ends up just closing out of the app and napping away his own self-made rejection, he sends it.

 **11:32 A.M. (Keith)** : You look like you just woke up.

 **11:32 A.M. (me)** : Class was cancelled. Are you saying that you don’t ever sleep in?

 **11:33 A.M. (Keith)** : I have to get back to work, but…

 **11:34 A.M. (Keith)** : Shiro wanted me to send this one too. [photo attachment]

The newest picture loads a lot quicker. It’s Keith and Shiro, nestled close together. They’re smiling in their uniforms and visors. In the background, he can barely make out Allura, leaning against the prep table and raising her hand in a wave. Keith’s grin is sloppy, his cheeks still pink. Shiro has an arm slung around his shoulders.

They look happy and at ease. Keith looks far more comfortable nestled under Shiro’s big arm than he’d looked smashed between his parents in that photo on the stairs.

**11:35 A.M. (Keith)** : He showed me how to add a picture as a wallpaper, so… I guess we’re even.

He wonders what Shiro must have said about Keith’s choice of wallpaper when Keith asked him for help. He wonders, as his pulse quickens and his cheeks only grow hotter, what Keith could have possibly told him.

If maybe, Shiro wasn’t surprised.

If maybe, he already knows very well what’s going on between both of them.

At some point, he reasons, Keith had to tell both Shiro and Allura that he found him cute. He’d admitted it himself—that he thought so. He’d said it so boldly and clearly that Lance can’t reasonably believe that everyone else was lying. And they’d known about him, enough to talk to Rolo. Enough that Allura recognized him just from his name tag, just from his uncomfortable, lopsided grin in the dark.

He wonders if he’s just as renowned among Keith’s family as Keith is in his groupchat. He wonders if Keith was just as excited to text him as he was to get the texts.

He stares at the photo for so much longer than he probably should—smiling a smile so dopey and lovestruck that Hunk eventually takes notice and asks if he’s feeling okay.

But for awhile, he doesn’t respond. He can’t even begin to think of the right words to say.

As an afterthought, as he finally pulls himself up out of bed with the intention of brushing his teeth and starting his late day, he sends a final text.

 **12:02 P.M. (me)** : I do love a man in uniform. Especially one as cute as you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit** : [Dee](https://twitter.com/4everbacon) drew the beautiful fanart that is featured in this chapter! You can also find the art on her twitter, [here](https://twitter.com/4everbacon/status/950827824788590592).
> 
> Hello again! Another cheese on another Friday. Hope you guys have been doing well!  
> And I actually have ‘real’ news to put in the notes this week. So, weird announcement, I’m actually getting married next Friday, so I’m going to be leaving this story in the very capable hands of [my friend (and the beta of my other WIP)](http://madamemauve.tumblr.com/). They were kind enough to look over this chapter for me last night, so… I hope you guys can send them some good vibes! I was honestly really sad thinking that I might have to skip out on some cheese for a week, so it was a huge relief when they offered to help out! 
> 
> Anyway, until next time, thanks for reading!
> 
>  **Quick edit** : Asiago is **Grindall's** favorite cheese! So shout-out to them!  <3


	11. Monterey Jack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: Phone calls, texts, and first date jitters.

It’s 2pm on a Saturday morning, and Lance has been talking on the phone with his mom for over an hour.

He steals a glance at the clock over Hunk’s desk, raising his arms helplessly as he catches the hopeless look in Hunk’s eyes. His mom continues to ramble and rant, her voice climbing into higher and higher octaves as she goes on. Lance begins to wonder if she’ll get herself so worked up that all of the dogs on their block will start howling and the glass of water on Hunk’s desk will burst apart.

“Mom, yeah—yeah mom, I know that. Yes, I did my laundry! Yes, mom, I know all about that— _mom_ ! Yes, we had _“the talk”_ when I was twelve, remember?! I think I’m good on repeating it for the rest of my life, thanks. Can we _please_ not have this conversation again when I have a date in three hours?!”

Oh, yeah. And he told her all about Keith, because _of course_ he did.

How could he have even considered keeping it a secret from her?

Sooner or later, she’ll need to know the other person who will be in charge of naming her future grandchildren.

She’s taken it very well—better than he could have hoped for, really. She’s never been the sort of parent that he’s needed to worry about telling things to. She’s been his biggest cheerleader, his entire life, a constant reassuring figure pushing him forward with only his best interests in mind. Regardless of everything that happened in high school, she’s always urged him to continue pursuing relationships, to be more open-minded, to be understanding and willing to search for love in places that maybe he wouldn’t have considered before.

So maybe he wasn’t worried about telling her, _“Oh yeah, you know how you and dad always thought that I was straight? Surprise! Guess I’m not!”_

And he didn’t even feel weird about telling her that Keith is a Deli clerk who’s never went to college, but…

It was intimidating anyway. He still doesn’t have all of the facts. He still doesn’t know with complete certainty that this relationship is even going anywhere yet, or that Keith thinks more of him than maybe just a cute guy who orders the same sandwich every time that he comes to the Deli. He doesn’t know if he’s just putting all of his eggs in one basket again, if maybe he’s inflated the idea of their relationship so much in his head that it’s indecipherable from reality.

And it’s not like he has any other opinions to compare his to. Hunk has still only interacted with Keith once, on the day that this whole thing started. Pidge has never met him. Rolo obviously isn’t the sort of person that he’d ever consider seeking out for advice, and well…

It’s not like he can ask Keith, _“Hey, do you think about smooching me as much as I think about smooching you?”_

He’d felt, when he’d told her, that maybe she would lecture him about all of this. Maybe she would remind him that he falls in love too easily, trusts too blindly. That he sees the good in people with such an overwhelming naivety that sometimes he might find himself in dangerous situations.

He’ll let people get away with just about anything.

He’ll forgive them too, if only they pretend that he’s blowing things out of proportion.

But Keith isn’t like that. He isn’t like that girl, or those guys in high school. He isn’t cruel or calculating, he doesn’t care about popularity. He treats people with an astounding level of tenderness that Lance would have never expected, until he got close enough.

He doesn’t have the right words to describe it, so he’s thankful that she didn’t ask.

But she could have told him, _“I don’t know if you should be messing around with a kid like that. You don’t know his past. You don’t know what kind of person he was before he came here.”_

Or even, _“Someone who’s grown accustomed to a fancy lifestyle isn’t going to appreciate the things that you can afford to offer them.”_

But she’d been good—she always has been. He isn’t even sure why he’d doubted her. She’s been his rock through hard times. She’d swooped in and saved him from the brunt of everything in high school, when he’d felt the situation slipping through his fingers, growing bigger and taller than any hurdle that he’d have the strength to leap over.

And she’d been gentle then—albeit a little mislead in how she’d handled things—just as she was gentle when he’d told her the news.

Just as, despite how loudly and excitedly she’s rambling at him now, he still can’t ignore the tender pang in the depths of her words. How wet her voice sounds, how she pauses and wavers at odd intervals during her speeches, as though she’s composing herself just as she’s starting to feel _too much_.

When he’d told her, _“I think I might have a boyfriend.”_

She hadn’t asked him, _“You think?”_ or _“Are you sure?”_

There hadn’t been an ounce of trepidation or doubt in her voice.

She’d grown silent for a mere second, breathed out so loudly through her nose that the sound of it had crackled through his phone’s speaker, and finally, she’d said, _“It’s about time someone finally realizes how handsome my boy is.”_

He should probably be a little embarrassed by it, but in place of rejection or flat-out denial, he thinks that it’s probably just about the best thing that she could have conceivably said about any of it.

Hunk raises a brow as though he already knows what kinds of silly, hare-brained thoughts are fueling him through another long-winded, Mom-Brand lecture.

Before he can defend himself through a series of angry whispers and dramatic hand gestures, his mom’s rambling is toeing very uncomfortable territory. Immediately, his attention is diverted from Hunk and back to his phone call, to his mom’s voice pitched so high by now that he’s forced to pull his phone away from his ear.

 _“You_ say _that you know, but are you going to_ remember _, Lance? You can’t just use protection that you’ve been carrying around in your wallet since high school! You have to use a new—”_

“ _Mom_ , okay! I—I get it, okay? It’s not… it’s not even like that! It’s just the first date—”

_“Well, I know how things go in college! I wasn’t born yesterday, Lance. Don’t even think for a second that I didn’t get up to some pretty crazy—”_

“ _MOM!_ I got it, okay?! I—I just ate an hour ago, please, I don’t wanna lose my lunch, but—I gotta go! I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Hunk is laughing by the time that he hangs up the phone, his desk chair squeaking as the wheels roll against the floor. He grips his sides as his amusement bubbles up through him, tears beading at the corners of his eyes.

“She _does_ know how long it took for him to even get your name right, doesn’t she?” He asks, wiping the wetness from his eyes, “Does she really think that your relationship is going to start moving at hyperspeed now?”

Lance sends him a scowl, tossing his phone on the bed and dragging his fingers through his hair. It stands up at the ends, freshly wet from the shower. With a grumble, he fusses with it in the mirror, propped against the wall just behind the laundry basket.

His cheeks are still sticky and glimmery from his moisturizer, his towel tied tightly just above his hips. He’s leaving little droplets of water behind with every step, but Hunk has given up chastising him. He only watches now, for a moment, before he lets out another quiet laugh and turns back to his conversation with Shay.

There are three outfits lined out on Lance’s bed—all meticulously ironed, all spot-free.

The first one is a classic: a long-sleeved, blue and white raglan tee, his baggy jeans, his high-top sneakers. He can feel Hunk judging him from across the room as he pads over to the bed to inspect it—as though to tell him, silently, and with much passion, _‘Don’t even think about it, dude. That’s your rejection outfit.’_

And it’s true, he knows. Pidge used to joke that this particular outfit was cursed somehow, with how many girls turned him down while he was wearing it—despite the fact that they’d debunked that superstition by reasoning that he’d only felt comfortable enough to initiate a conversation in the first place when he was wearing his favorite shirt and jeans.

But he shakes his head and passes over it regardless, because despite how mundane and rooted in reality the true reasoning behind that curse may be, he still isn’t sure if he’s comfortable with any supposed bad juju messing up his date tonight.

He’s already set his school jacket to the side—intent on wearing it over whatever he chooses, now that it’s gotten cold enough outside that he won’t be sweating profusely and ruining the cool-guy image that the jacket is supposed to imbue. Hunk had cautioned him against it, at first. He’d said that it sent out a lot of “mixed messages”, and that Keith might spend the rest of the night desperately trying to figure out what all of the cryptic symbols might mean instead of paying close enough attention to their conversation. But at Lance’s prodding, he’d relented, or settled, at the very least, to the fact that the jacket was an integral asset no matter how silly he thought that all of it was.

But the problem is the two remaining outfits. He still isn’t sure which one he should choose.

On one hand, there’s his tried and true, faded t-shirt that Pidge bought him for his 15th birthday. He isn’t really sure, even still, what the theme of it is—the weird, catlike robots all forming together into a bigger robot. The words beneath it so cracked and crumbled from years of wear and tear that he can’t even remember what it used to say. It’s grungy, he thinks. The type of careless attire that maybe a person like Keith would think was cool.

With that, he’s paired it with an equally damaged pair of jeans, his old running shoes, and a shark-tooth necklace that he got from a vacation to Florida when he was ten. Hunk makes a quiet comment about the clash of _“surfer dude meets poser punk”_ , but he ignores him.

Even still, the attire really isn’t him. It doesn’t exactly get the message across of who he is, and he wonders if starting off a relationship with so many white lies is really a good idea at all.

Which leads him to his final option: a plain black t-shirt and a red and black flannel, a dark pair of jeans and the newest pair of tennis shoes that he owns. He imagines that the flannel will be extra warm, just in case he wants to offer Keith his jacket during a late-night stroll through the streets after dinner. And he thinks that maybe the dark navy shade of the jacket will make the saturated reds of the flannel really _pop_.

And he wonders how it would look against Keith’s pale skin—if it would contrast the red apples of his cheeks, the cute, chilly pink on the tip of his nose. If Keith would be small enough to swim in it. If maybe, he’d be willing to part with it just so he could imagine Keith wearing it to work and back—to the many classes that the Shiroganes have signed him up for, throughout his regular day-to-day, as a reminder of the cute customer who he’s fallen so helplessly in love with.

It’s a lot to hope for, he thinks. He doesn’t even know if it’s supposed to get cold tonight, and he isn’t sure if Keith is the kind of person who wouldn’t think to bring his own jacket.

As an afterthought, or a precaution, he fetches his phone from the bed, swallowing his residual nerves at the mere idea that he can now contact Keith so effortlessly after vying for his attention for so long—whenever he wants, for _whatever_ he wants—and sends him a quick text.

The final message in their log is from himself, agreeing to Keith’s suggested time and suggested meeting place—5pm, in front of his house.

_“We can figure out where we want to go from there.”_

He wonders, as he’s struggling through his wording, if Keith might mistakenly think that he has a car.

Dread washes over him in ice-cold waves.

 **2:45 P.M. (me)** : What’s your favorite color?

 **2:46 P.M. (Keith)** : Why?

 **2:47 P.M. (me)** : Do I really need a reason to ask what your favorite color is?

 **2:52 P.M. (Keith)** : I guess it’s red. Sometimes I like blue.

 **2:56 P.M. (me)** : Only “sometimes”?

He wonders, idly, as he tosses his phone on the bed again, when and why Keith “sometimes” likes blue. He imagines that maybe it’s the sky or the ocean, if he’s ever seen it up close. That it’s bright blue umbrellas in the rain, or the electric blue hue of his bathroom lights cast down over his face in front of the sink every morning. He can’t imagine that even Keith couldn’t fall in love with himself every time that he caught a glimpse of his own reflection.

Like Narcissus gazing at his own face in the spotless, reflective surface of a pond. Like a wandering traveler stumbling upon the Northern Lights for the very first time.

Keith’s beauty is a sight to behold. And he wonders, as heat skitters under his skin, if Keith has any idea how intoxicating he really is.

It’s strange to him, even still, that not everyone has wised up enough to fall so hard for someone like Keith—when it’s so painfully obvious how gorgeous he is, how clever he can be, how earnestly he does everything, with so much integrity. How he cares so much about everyone around him even when it seems, to Lance, as though they’re barely making an effort for him at all.

His phone buzzes, the screen lights up. He chooses the flannel and the black shirt, clicking his tongue as Hunk mutters, _“Can you please just get dressed already, man? I’m getting really sick of seeing your nipples!”_

Before he checks Keith’s new message, no matter how much his curiosity is eating at him, he opts to placate Hunk first. He shimmies out of his towel, tossing it blindly behind him and flinching as he hears it slap against the mirror, rattling it against the wall. He pulls a pair of boxers out of his pile of underwear and socks—already selected and folded neatly just next to his jacket—and steps into them, before tugging the pants from the bed and grimacing at the way that the fabric pulls against his still-damp skin.

Then it’s the t-shirt, followed by the flannel. He turns to admire himself in the mirror.

He might date a version of himself who looks like this all the time. If he never had to see himself with bad breath and unruly bedhead in the morning, if he never had to smell himself in a greasy _Sal’s_ uniform, reeking of garlic and mozzarella sticks.

He’d look at a dressed up version of himself and think, maybe, _‘Hey, that guy cleans up nice!’, ‘This is the kind of guy who has some respect for his appearance!’_

The kind of guy who’s worth dating. The kind of guy who looks the part of someone lucky enough to have dinner with a hotshot like Keith Kogane.

He’s no Takashi Shirogane, but he isn’t too bad either. He’s definitely no Keith, but he feels confident enough that hopefully, this time, he won’t feel like a crusty grease stain on their spotless kitchen floor.

The jacket is the last thing that he slides into, and it fits just like he hopes that it will. It’s big enough that he feels comfortable moving around, snug enough and high enough that it clings to him without covering him up too much.

Finally, now that his confidence is peaked, he grabs his phone and checks Keith’s unread message.

And somehow, while he might have thought only moments ago that his ego was high enough that he might be able to reach up and touch the clouds, Keith shoots him off into atmosphere, beyond the satellites in orbit, all the way into the furthest cluster of stars.

 **3:02 P.M. (Keith)** : I only like blue when I’m looking at you.

 **3:02 P.M. (Keith)** : Your eyes, I mean.

 **3:02 P.M. (Keith)** : You have pretty eyes.

He can’t stop himself from laughing—a light, bubbly, airy laughter that has Hunk raising both eyebrows and turning to gape at him in shocked silence. But he doesn’t care if Hunk thinks that he’s lost his mind, or if he feels like a fool riding over to Keith’s gigantic house to pick him up on a bike that’s barely big enough to fit both of them.

It doesn’t matter that the romantic conspiracy that brought them together in the first place was really was just a creation of his own imagination, or that he still isn’t sure if whatever’s going on between them is just as powerfully magnetic for Keith as he feels that it is for himself.

Because Keith thinks that he has pretty eyes.

He’s looked at him long enough and close enough to notice that they’re blue.

He feels, right now, as though he’s big enough and strong enough to take on any unfortunate thing that life could throw at him tonight.

He draws himself closer to the mirror, picking apart his reflection for anything that he might regret later tonight. Are there any snags in his jacket? Is his hair starting to stand up in awkward directions now that it’s dried?

And what about his breath?

He cups his hand in front of his face, breathing out in a few small puffs before sniffing. It smells like minty toothpaste. He wonders if maybe he should stop by commissary on his way out to pick up some gum just in case.

And then he’s catching a glimpse of his own eyes staring back at him—shadowed under the dinky light overhead, darkened and narrowed in concentration. His mouth is wide and flat as he wonders, with a heavy weight resting in the pits of his belly, what Keith could possibly see when he looks at him.

Because he’s gawky and too thin, too stretched out, too long and too clumsy and far too awkward to ever catch the right kind of attention. He’s never managed to get a haircut that looks just how he wants it to. He’s never figured out how to pick out clothes that fit him like they fit the people in the magazines.

He wouldn’t call himself ugly, by any means, no. But he isn’t pretty like Keith. He isn’t like the cute girls who he used to chase in high school—someone worth the turn of a head, someone worth more than a split second’s thought until the memory of him is erased from another person’s mind forever.

And he wonders, as he tugs at the edges of his clothes and pulls up his pants a little higher, if Keith could somehow be doing this exact same thing as he is right now.

If maybe even someone as beautiful as Keith would have trouble understanding what another person might see in him.

He fusses with his hair a little longer, borrows a frequently unused jar of product from Hunk and works each strand intricately into the most handsome, yet carelessly disheveled style that he can conjure up. Then he’s pacing the room, debating with Hunk over which restaurant in town might be the best casual—yet obviously romantic—getaway spot that he could take someone on a first date.

“No, no, there’s this Italian place just across from your job that has the best caponata! You need to go there, Lance! He’ll fall helplessly in love with you the moment the food settles into his taste buds!”

Lance crinkles his nose, bringing a hand to his chin in thought. He drags in another breath, cocking one hip to the side, imagining how pretty Keith might look in some low-lit, snazzy Italian joint over a mountainous pile of unlimited breadsticks.

But he doesn’t even know what kind of food Keith likes—aside from peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and chocolate bars that he can smash easily in a vice grip when the mood arises.

Time is running out, as they argue. His phone buzzes once more, and when he checks it, it’s Keith asking if they’re still due to meet at five.

He sends his affirmation, chances a look at the clock.

_4:15._

Just enough time to get there, on the dot, if he leaves now and figures out his plans on the way there instead of bickering with Hunk here.

And he’s out the door—his wallet and phone pocketed at lightning speed, a quick goodbye to Hunk. He’s shuffling down the hall as quickly as he can, without any of the room monitors peeking a head out of their offices and yelling at him to slow down.

It’s cool outside, when he gets past the landing and pushes through the heavy front doors—chilly enough that it seeps in through his exposed wrist-holes, under his sleeves, tingling as goose pimples prod up under his skin. The sky is already beginning to darken, earlier and earlier in the evening. He wonders where he’ll be, as a person, once it gets so late in the year that it’s already nightfall by this time.

If maybe, he’ll be visiting the Deli to pick Keith up for dates after his shift.

If he’ll pass the algebra class that he’s struggling in.

If he’ll ever feel more comfortable in his own skin than he does right now—with Keith’s small compliments still buzzing like live wires inside of him.

His bike is fastened with its dented old lock to a rack just a little ways away. There aren’t a lot of people out right now—with the cold and the time, with the weekend having already started for so many of his peers with their keggers and “post midterm” parties that must have kept them up until the sun rose this morning.

He remembers, with a small laugh, when he used to be one of those people—when he used to yearn to be invited to those parties and to stay out late, having fun. When in reality, he’s sure that he would have ended up somewhere near the edge of it all, not quite knowing anyone well enough to join them, not quite comfortable enough with himself to say anything that he wouldn’t regret later.

He hates to admit that Hunk was right all along, that somehow his best friend who still cries watching cartoon kid’s movies—who stays up late video chatting with his long-distance girlfriend, who runs a _food blog_ , for God’s sake, and still can’t ride a ferris wheel without losing his lunch— was somehow so much further ahead when it came to college-aged wisdom. When it came to being truer to himself, and refusing to let another person dictate what he should do with his weekends.

Hunk never batted an eye at the mention of a party, at the offer of going out. He’s always preferred to spend his time studying, or visiting to Pidge’s dorm room to play video games and watch their favorite movies. He’s always taken the opportunity to talk to Shay over doing something new and adventurous, and he’s never been the sort of person to make regretful decisions because of it.

Lance always used to think that he was playing it safe. He always used to think that a slow, comfortable life was a self-made Hell that only boring, terrified people were willing to settle into.

But now Lance is content with just this—with his date at a nice restaurant with a cute boy. While so many of his peers nurse hangovers, while so many of his classmates plan tonight’s party, get ready to go out to a club. While they prepare themselves for their next exciting destination.

And he feels, for the first time, like just another one of those people. Another small dot breaking away from the mundane day-to-day of their university life, setting off on his own little adventure, living the nightlife, finding some small comfort between one test and the next, one anxiety-fueled all-nighter to the last, one early morning into the next late night.

He doesn’t feel superior to those people and their parties. He doesn’t feel all that different from them at all.

But finally, he feels as though he’s found something that was made just for him.

He feels alive.

He feels important.

He feels like nothing even matters, but his key finally turning in his rusty lock, and the idea that soon enough, Keith will be pressed against his back again.

They’ll eat at a nice restaurant. They’ll hold hands as they walk the streets in the dark. They’ll find a soft patch of grass in the park and they’ll gaze up at the stars.

And someday—maybe tonight, maybe next weekend, maybe months and months from now—he’ll look at Keith while he smiles, or laughs, while he talks about something that he’s passionate about.

And he’ll know, in that moment, that Keith is truly the only person who he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from Sunday! Moth here, writing my notes in advance so I can get this formatted and sent over to my buddy for posting as soon as humanly possible! This week’s cheese is their favorite, by the way! Man, I wonder why… I named it after their favorite cheese conveniently on the week that they’re posting for me…  
> Anyway, this one was honestly pretty fun to write! I always like working on these sort of… build-up chapters before everything kinda blows up! Personally, I think it’s exciting! But I do apologize that nothing super dramatic happened this week!  
> I really hope you guys have a wonderful Friday and a great weekend! I’m missing you already and I’m only leaving on my honeymoon like… six hours before this is going to be posted!
> 
> By the way, I’m running out of cheese titles! So please, if you have a favorite cheese, slide that bad-boy my way. I’ll make it worth your while (by naming a chapter after it). 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed it!


	12. Gouda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Specials: a lot more beef than Lance was expecting.

Lance is way beyond the point of “out of breath” by the time he reaches Keith’s neighborhood.

He’d allowed himself to get psyched up, to go over a million different scenarios in his head—of running late and forcing Keith to wait around for him, making some kind of accidental statement about all of this, that maybe he doesn’t care as much about Keith as Keith cares about him.

He thinks about the Shiroganes sitting around their wide, glossy kitchen table with Keith, excited to meet his future boyfriend, then disappointed to find that the guy doesn’t respect their beloved adopted son’s time enough not to waste it.

And eventually, with a spike of anxiety thrumming through his chest, he contemplates the idea of getting stuck in traffic. Of waiting for too long at the red-lit crosswalks, unable to weave between the immovable wall of stalled cars. Of Keith sitting outside on the steps leading from his porch into the driveway. He might be dressed up in his nice clothes, shivering in an expensive sports jacket, growing weary and dejected that Lance must have stood him up, before going inside and locking himself away in his room.

All of the worst scenarios had played out then.

Missing out on his one big break because he couldn’t pedal fast enough. Losing his chance to see Keith smile up at the stars. Allowing this opportunity to pass him by, and returning to his old, lonely life. Finishing college without ever having his first kiss, holding someone else’s hand, feeling Keith’s warm body pressed against him one more time.

He’d been so wracked with nervousness that he’d pedaled twice as hard. He’d pushed himself to go faster and faster, so reckless and eager that he’d nearly slammed into moving cars three times before he finally convinced himself to be more careful.

And when it’s all said and done—when he sees Keith’s house over the perfectly manicured shrubbery and a thin canopy of trees—he slows down, coasts a bit. He allows his legs to stretch out and skim the smooth pavement of the street, stops three driveways away from Keith’s to catch his breath and check the time.

He’s twenty minutes early.

If Sal knew that he could manage this kind of time, he’d have a lot of late deliveries to answer for.

From his (hopefully) hidden vantage point, it doesn’t look as though Keith is waiting outside just yet. His staggered breaths are more relieved now, easier in and out. His pulse gradually slows, and the sweat at his hairline evaporates, replaced by cold air itching with the product against his scalp. He turns off his phone screen, using the dark, reflective surface of it to check his appearance just in case the ride over left him too disheveled.

But everything seems to be in place. He wonders if later on, he’ll regret not stopping somewhere for a pack of gum.

And he wonders, heat crawling through his veins, warming him against the bracing cold of the early autumn evening, if he’ll get a chance to visit Keith’s room again. And if, when he gets there, Keith will have gradually started working his way through the bag of gummy worms.

After a moment of self-reflection, and another moment of looking over his clothing and smoothing out as many wrinkles as possible, he kicks himself forward, teetering down the road until he reaches Keith’s driveway.

He’s still fifteen minutes early now, and it’s starting to feel colder—as the sun sinks lower and lower beyond the trees and the streaks of orange and pink begin to fade into the inky black of night. The streetlamps above fizzle on, still too bright outside now for them to give off any extra light. But the hum of them reminds him of last weekend again—of sitting on the curb in front of the convenience store. Of talking to Keith and listening to Keith, and watching the ebb and flow of emotions washing over his face as they tackled so many difficult subjects so soon in their relationship.

And _relationship_ feels like a loaded word, but he isn’t too sure what else to call it.

Friendship is far too distant now. He feels as though they’ve come too far. He feels as though, telling someone that you _love blue because of their eyes_ isn’t the sort of thing that you’d say to a friend.

He feels a spark of confidence lighting up inside of him. He steers his bike up the driveway, kicking out the stand and dismounting it.

The Shiroganes’ porch light is already turned on. Softly, he can hear the murmur of the television through the window.

He swallows deeply, willing down the vibrato of his heart.

He hopes, with everything that he has, that neither of Keith’s parents answer the door.

But even worse, he isn’t sure what he’ll do if it’s Shiro instead.

He wipes his sweaty hands off on his jacket, then panics, momentarily, as he checks to make sure that no one will be able to actually see the sweat there. And with relief, when his jacket appears dry enough, he pushes out a deep breath. He furrows his brows as he peers up the short staircase leading to the Shiroganes’ front door.

He still can’t help but feel a little underdressed—tacky and cheap, unrefined. He can’t help but feel, as he takes a few tentative steps towards the door, as though he should have blown his monthly food budget going somewhere nice and picking out a more expensive outfit.

His mom would have called him immediately after, he’s sure. She would have given him Hell for running up the special credit card account, that she’d opened just so he could eat, with purchases of new clothing and shoes, instead of the ramen noodles and occasional Deli sandwiches that have become integral to his daily nutrition.

But maybe it would have been worth it, just so he could feel more comfortable coming here.

If maybe, gaining the Shiroganes’ respect would have been more important than keeping his nose clean enough that his mom wouldn’t jump down his throat immediately after he returned home for winter break.

He climbs each stair slowly, steeling himself for the interaction that’s surely just moments away from taking place. He isn’t sure who he’d rather see—or if maybe Keith will spare him from all of this and drag him away before he can butcher his way through an awkward introduction with his future in-laws.

He shakes his head. That line of thinking is doing nothing to still his nerves.

With a heavy heart and another deep gulp of breath, he raises his fist and pounds on the door three times—in gradual succession.

And he jerks, awkwardly, as he realizes that he should have rung the bell instead.

Nonetheless, he can hear footsteps through the window, tapping against the hardwood floors from the living room into the entryway. He steps back, folding his fingers together behind his back and putting on his bravest face.

He tries to remember how each Shirogane parent looked in the photo by the staircase—the creases of their smiles, the crinkles of their eyes. Their pearly teeth obscured by the shadows and blended together into their skin by the blue-lit party lights—the whole world folded together and blurred out into a singular streak of dizziness as he’d struggled through the dark to find Keith’s bedroom.

Desperately, he tries to piece together how they’d look in person:

Shiro’s mother in a dark turtleneck, with a heavy strand of expensive jewelry wrapped around the collar. Wearing the gray streaks in her hair proudly, her dainty hand resting just above the crook of Keith’s arm. Smooth, undamaged pantyhose clinging to her tiny legs, down into the glossy black of heeled boots, her legs crossed together under a black, velvety skirt.

He thinks that she’d carry herself with a confident politeness. He thinks that she wouldn’t understand it, if she found out that he was picking Keith up on a kid’s bike. She’d get her manicures in blood red. She’d wing her eyeliner perfectly on the first try.

She’d pay people to make the grays in her hair stand out starkly, as a statement, maybe. She’d be the one who signed Keith up for so many classes. She’d read about it in a magazine or see it on a talk show while she was getting her nails done: that troubled kids need hobbies. That they need to find an outlet. She’d be the one who worried about him sometimes, but just didn’t understand how to reach out.

And Shiro’s father—tall and thick-necked. His smile would look more like Shiro’s. He’d have a handshake like silk-wrapped iron. He’d buy custom-sized shoes for his big feet, tailored suits for his long, broad legs. He’d be the one who pushed Shiro to enlist in sports—who didn’t understand a tiny thing like Keith never showing interest in anything athletic. He’d be the one who told his wife, quietly, while Keith wasn’t around, _“He needs more direction. He needs an example of what it means to be a man.”_

It’s unfair, he thinks, after spending so much time worrying that Shiro and Allura had the wrong idea about him, to judge Keith’s parents so quickly, just based on their appearances. Keith doesn’t speak about them as though they’re mean or neglectful. He doesn’t revere them with contempt or fear, or sadness.

He just doesn’t understand them, Lance thinks. He doesn’t understand anyone who treats him so gently. Who gives him too much room to find his own way and thrive.

From the sounds of everything that Keith told him last weekend, it seems, to Lance, as though Keith isn’t used to anyone not telling him what to do with his own life.

His train of thought is cut off abruptly, just as he’s beginning to journey down the painful road of wondering just how bossy all of Keith’s previous families must have been.

The door swings open, and he’s greeted first by a gust of warm air pushed out by the force of it. He twitches uncomfortably, tugging his hands from behind his back and fiddling his fingers together nervously in front of his chest.

The grin that greets him is surprised, but it’s familiar.

Shiro reaches forward and rests a hand on his shoulder, stepping back and urging him inside.

“You’re early,” he says, affection evident in each word, “Keith’s still getting ready upstairs. Why don’t you come hang out with me in the living room until he’s done?”

Immediate familiarity. Lance flounders in the face of it.

He follows behind Shiro, pausing uncertainly before pushing the door closed behind him. Shiro offers him another winning smile as it clicks closed, thanking him softly before pressing his fingers just a little firmer in his shoulder and leading him into the living room.

It looks smaller now—filled again with the furniture that it was missing the last time that he came here, without the extra tables and the many bodies miraculously squeezed in together. There’s a spotless, cream-colored carpet that he’s uncomfortable walking on in his shoes, but Shiro doesn’t even seem to notice it as he ushers him down onto a long, fluffy couch against the wall.

On the opposite side of the room, sits a television that’s bigger than any that he’s ever seen before—from one corner of the room to the next, it stretches out and beams back to him the image of the soccer game that Shiro must have been watching when he interrupted him.

Shiro sits down on the furthest end of the couch, finally releasing Lance’s shoulder. He places one elbow on the armrest, his other hand coming to rest in his lap. He leans back against the cushion, drawing his gaze to the TV just as someone scores a goal, the corners of his smile twitching upward.

“Do you like sports, Lance?” he asks, so casual and gentle that Lance has a hard time imagining that this is some kind of parental intimidation tactic that he’s seen in all of the movies.

Lance clears his throat, willing away his jitters and balling his fists on top of his thighs. The roar of the crowd buzzes on the TV. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Shiro reaching between them and grabbing the remote to mute it.

“I-I ran track in high school,” he says, meekly, “I was on the swim team for a while, but it didn’t… work out.”

His mom could only afford the fees for one sport. In this huge house, watching soccer on an oversized television that probably costs more than his family’s car, he regrets even bringing it up.

But Shiro only nods. He doesn’t press the issue and he doesn’t seem as though he’s interested in prying any further. He stays quiet for a moment, as though he’s giving Lance a chance to calm down. And Lance wonders if he’s gentle with Keith like this too—if he’s strangely in tune with the ups and downs of Keith’s emotions, if he knows when to push and when to pull back, and for how long he should allow him to vent his anger before stepping in.

“You know, my parents set Keith up on a date with their friend’s daughter about a year ago.” Shiro is still watching the game intently. His fingers drag idly over the buttons on the remote. “It didn’t take him this long to get ready.”

He laughs then, as Lance straightens up in his seat.

“They were worried that he’d never make any friends here. That maybe… he’d always make a point of not fitting in for some reason.” He pauses for a moment, running his hand through the sprig of bangs hanging between his eyes. Momentarily, Lance wonders if he’d look even a fraction as handsome with the same weird haircut. “Please don’t tell Keith that I told you this, but you’re kind of a celebrity around here now. Not a peep about anyone for two straight years, then suddenly all this talk about _‘the cute guy who orders the bacon sandwich’, ‘the cool guy who has so many friends that he’s texting all the time’, ‘the awesome guy who can pedal his bike for hours without getting tired’_ —you can imagine how shocking it was at first. Keith usually doesn’t warm up to people so quickly.”

Shiro laughs again, turning to Lance with another sunshine smile. There isn’t anything sinister behind all of those straight rows of white teeth. There isn’t a threat here, or any doubt that Lance might not be everything that Keith has apparently claimed him to be.

“You’ve been very good for him,” Shiro says, “I guess it’s weird to say, but we appreciate how nice you’ve been.”

It’s just Shiro, reaching out. A kind, genuine person.

Lance’s cheeks feel dreadfully hot.

“I-it’s no… problem,” he says dumbly, his mind skittering helplessly as he struggles to formulate a response, “I-I mean, he’s cool, so I—I mean, I really like him, and—”

“You have to be careful, though.” Shiro cuts him off, the mood abruptly sinking down from something warm and comfortable, to something far more serious. “I trust you, but my parents, they’re… a little more doubtful.”

It feels as though the world has frozen around them. His heart pounds in his ears. Shiro’s soft smile has tightened now—tensed up into a deep frown that tugs at something far within the reaches of Lance’s chest. His brows are drawn together, his fingers scraping against the armrest as he clenches them into a loose fist.

“I know that Keith told you about his situation, somewhat. And maybe it’s wrong of me to tell you this, but… I want you to understand that it’s not your fault, I mean—when you meet my parents, if they’re weird with you, it’s nothing that you’ve done.”

Lance feels as though his entire body will never stop shaking. He clasps his hands tightly together, rubbing his sneakers together on the floor. He looks away from Shiro then—feeling too raw once he’s stared at him for too long, feeling as though something deep down inside of him has been overstimulated to the point that he needs to take a moment to compose himself.

He doesn’t want to hear any of this, but Shiro has been nothing but kind to him until now. And even now, as he’s apparently preparing himself to drop some kind of bomb that’s even too hefty for Keith to handle on his own, he seems as though he’s treading carefully. As though the extended lapse of conversation is Shiro building up the right words in his head to say.

“You know that we brought Keith here two years ago—that we adopted him from foster care. His parents had been missing long enough that they were presumed dead. It didn’t seem like any distant family members were going to step up and take him at that point, since he was already seventeen. I couldn’t tell you why my parents picked him, but of course I’m happy that they did. Child services sent them hundreds of photos to look over. They spent months going through a ton of different profiles, meeting with people, signing paperwork.”

He sighs then, crouching down ever-so slightly, so that both of his elbows rest on the tops of his knees. He’s moved his gaze from the television to the carpet between his socked feet. Lance recognizes the brand name printed over the toes. It’s a sporty brand that’s fifty dollars for a bundle of three. For whatever reason, even though he knew very well that Shiro’s entire wardrobe could probably fund his education, it still makes him feel smaller than a speck of dust.

Shiro scratches his forehead, before cupping his face in one hand.

“I remember, my mom picked up his photo and she told my dad, _“He’s the one.”_ The two of them were kind of set on it. They kept telling me, _“He’s your little brother! He’s perfect!”_ , and they wouldn’t listen to a word anyone said about it. No matter how much everyone warned them that Keith was too old, he’d been in the system for too long, they were determined that he was meant to be their son this whole time. They’d just found him a little late.”

Despite how strained his voice is starting to sound, there’s a nostalgic, affectionate smile drawn out over Shiro’s lips. He flicks his gaze up to meet Lance’s for a split second, before that smile disappears and he drops his eyes back down to the floor.

“Around six months after we brought him home, we got a phone call.”

The smile has disappeared completely. His eyes are hard, stony and dark. His free hand is tight in its fist.

“It was a woman, claiming to be Keith’s mom. She… asked my parents to meet up with her to talk. My parents are good people, but… sometimes I think their optimism kind of overwhelms their judgement. They want to do the right thing, and they want to see the best in people, so they’d rather take a risk than doubt someone at face value.”

He still isn’t smiling, but he laughs. Lance feels as though his belly is suddenly filled with a thousand crawling insects. He feels like every part of him is humming with nerves—with fear, with the need to run away just so he doesn’t have to hear any of this.

He can tell, already, where this is going.

And he doesn’t want to finish. He doesn’t want to know what Shiro wants to tell him.

He doesn’t want to live with the realization that someone could do something like this to Keith.

“My parents met up with her, and she showed them a photo that—they said, I never got to see it—looked like Keith as a baby. She told them that his dad was abusive and she had to leave. That it was too dangerous to take Keith with her because she knew that his dad would come after her. Keith… was very adamant that this was wrong, but he was a baby when she left so… my parents thought that maybe he just didn’t remember. They were so sure that they could do this for him—that they could, I guess… make things easier for him and help him reconnect with his birth mother. They didn’t listen to him when he tried to tell them that she was lying. She wasn’t his mom.”

Shiro’s eyes are wet around the edges. Lance wonders, for a bitter few seconds, if this is a normal first-date pep-talk with the Shiroganes.

He wonders where the _‘have him home by ten’_ s and the _‘better not try anything funny’_ s will fit in with all of this.

“She said that she looked us up online after she heard the news that we’d adopted a kid—that she saw his pictures on my profile and she knew that he was her son. Keith wouldn’t talk to her. When they invited her over, he took one look at her and locked himself in his room until long after she left. But she told my parents that she’d been looking for him, and that she wanted to raise him again to make up for lost time. That she wanted to be a family again, after everything.”

He can hear footsteps upstairs. On the television, the game is over. It seems that Shiro’s team has won, and they’re jumping around in excitement.

“They gave her money—enough for a deposit and the first few month’s rent on an apartment around here. And I kept telling them that they needed to be more careful, that they should do a DNA test to see if she was even related to Keith, since he seemed so positive that she wasn’t telling the truth. Eventually, they agreed, but… she disappeared pretty much immediately after doing it. She just took the money and ran, and we never heard from her again.”

The words pulse against the inside of Lance’s skull. It feels as though something thick and hot has lodged itself deep into the bottom of his throat. He can barely breathe around it. He feels as though he’s dunked himself in cold water.

“The results came back a few days later and she wasn’t his mom, so… Keith… of course, you know how Keith can get. He was upset, and he let us all have it. Kind of… demanded that we stop being so public about adopting him, blaming my parents for not listening to him and just thinking so romantically about the world. I think he was afraid that they’d blame him, but… They felt bad. And I don’t think they ever trusted anyone who wanted to get close to Keith after that. When I started dating Allura, even, they grilled her for hours, as though she had something to gain out of dating me.”

The laughter returns. It sounds, Lance thinks, like a feeble baby bird attempting to fly for the first time. As though Shiro is unsure of himself in this moment, or how funny all of this is. As if he doesn’t know now if he said too much and ruined things for Keith already, before he’s even done getting ready for his date.

There’s a tall, antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Each click is audible now that they televisions is muted, and it seems as though Shiro isn’t sure what to say. If Lance squints, he can barely make out the numbers, and he realizes that Keith is running five minutes late.

Upstairs, it sounds as though someone is using a hairdryer.

“That’s why you don’t have any pictures of Keith on your profile,” he says softly, so quiet and timid that it’s barely there at all, “because Keith wanted you to take them down.”

Shiro twitches a little before turning to look at him. Something registers in his eyes, and Lance doesn’t like the look of it at all. Despite what a big gesture Shiro has made of oversharing tonight, Lance still feels as though he’s reclaimed his crown, shoved Shiro off of his spot at the last second as _“King of Always Saying the Wrong Thing”_.

Shiro doesn’t mention it, however, but his smile returns. It’s enough of a relief to feel the tenseness seeping out of the conversation that Lance chooses to disregard his own humiliation.

“I’m sorry for making you listen to something so depressing before your date,” Shiro tells him, “I probably should have waited, but honestly, I wasn’t sure when I’d get to talk to you alone again. Keith said he’d only be five minutes about twenty minutes ago, right after you knocked on the door, so…”

He lets that statement hang there. Lance feels blood returning tenfold to his cheeks.

“D-did, um… did he really talk about me?”

He feels like an idiot for bringing it up, and even dumber for bringing it up to a member of Keith’s family, of all people. But it feels like the only thing that he can focus on as his mind whirs with the details of Shiro’s story. As he struggles to ignore the nagging feeling of loss, of anger, of resentment for Keith’s adoptive parents, no matter how well-meaning they seemed to be.

He just needs something to distract himself, he thinks, lest he emulate Keith last weekend at the convenience store and scream at him about how worthy he is of love as soon as he finally finishes getting ready and makes it to the bottom of the stairs.

Shiro coughs, but it doesn’t do a very good job of masking his laughter.

“All the time,” he says, his voice heavy with more amusement than Lance knows what to do with, “I mean, Keith isn’t much of a talker, but man if he can’t make a two minute transaction with you last an hour when he’s talking about it later. He told me about your bedhead in that selfie you sent him so many times that I think I could draw it from memory.”

Lance isn’t sure if he feels more mortified or flattered. He isn’t sure if the churning in his belly is all of those bugs finally crawling away, or his lunch threatening to shoot up into his throat.

He doesn’t know what to say to any of this, or what he was even expecting when he asked, but he can’t deny that it makes him feel a whole lot better. That his ego isn’t just about to burst by now, from such an endless barrage of direct and indirect compliments from the guy who’s captured his attention for over a month straight now.

“I-I’m sorry,” he chokes out, hoping that hanging his head toward his lap might hide his red cheeks from Shiro’s line of sight, “I—I mean, about how often you have to hear about my hair.”

His laughter lacks the confidence and the pure, unfiltered emotion of Shiro’s. It’s more stilted, more forced. He wants nothing more right now than to jump up from his seat, climb the stairs and grab Keith by the shoulders.

And maybe, finally, admit to Keith that he’s the most beautiful, wonderful person who he’s ever met in his life.

He hears a door upstairs creaking open, then footsteps clunking heavily down the hall. He hears the photos by the stairs rattling, as though someone is skimming their fingers over each of them—hears those heavy steps moving down the staircase, past the front door, towards the room where he’s too afraid to turn around and see who might be coming to visit.

He doesn’t know where Shiro’s parents are. He isn’t sure if it would be better or worse if it was one of them instead of Keith.

Suddenly, when faced with the very real opportunity to tell Keith exactly how he feels about him, the words are dying quicker in his brain that they could ever hope to travel all the way to his tongue.

“H-hey, uh, sorry… I couldn’t find the shirt that I wanted… to wear.”

It’s a lame excuse in an unsure voice.

But it’s Keith, undeniably. His heart catches in his throat.

And slowly, he turns around.

To view the most stunning art form of a human being that he’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter is a few hours late, I am so sorry! I try to keep a fairly consistent schedule, but... This week has been very weird. 
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to take a moment for a little shout-out! The lovely [an-awkward-avocado](https://an-awkward-avocado.tumblr.com/) drew art for this story! You can find their adorable drawing on their art blog, [here](https://anawkwardavocadoart.tumblr.com/post/168626514209/he-pauses-for-a-split-second-that-feels-like-an). 
> 
> Anywho, thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it!


	13. Cheddar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight’s Specials: Mountains of food, awkward first dates, and the beginning of a very dangerous game.

Keith isn’t dressed as simply as he was last weekend, and his hair looks different in a way that Lance can’t put his finger on right away.

He’s standing awkwardly in the doorway, one hand on the frame and the other shoved into his jacket pocket. He’s leaning most of his weight against the wall now, cheeks pink as he bites the inside of his lip. It seems to Lance—as he’s experienced this feeling entirely too many times to count—that Keith might be worrying now that he’s put too much effort into his outfit, and he’s wondering if it would be weirder to go back upstairs and change.

Lance’s mouth is slack and his tongue is stilled and useless. He couldn’t reassure Keith even if he knew how to think straight right now.

Because Keith, as always, looks beautiful.

But under the warm light overhead, framed by the Shiroganes’ tasteful decor, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one boot-clad foot to the other—Keith truly lives up to his image in Lance’s mind, as an angel fallen from heaven. As a Monet painting sprung to life and climbing out of its canvas to live among the rest of humanity.

He’s wearing a leather jacket—or convincing enough faux-leather that Lance can’t tell the difference. It’s dark enough that his hair looks lighter contrasted against it—that it’s a stark comparison to all of the different hues in the strands, to Keith’s dark eyes, to his porcelain skin and cherry-red cheeks, to the pink lips that he worries between his teeth.  

Beneath the jacket, there’s an heather-gray hoodie. The hood is pulled out behind the neck of his jacket, the sleeves just long enough that they poke out midway to his thumb.

Dark pants, black boots. He’s reminiscent of all of the greasers in all of Lance’s favorite 50s movies. He’s John Travolta singing _‘Summer Nights’_ to a beguiled Olivia Newton John.

And his hair, Lance finally realizes, is swept out of his face and purposefully disheveled, in the same way that he’d tried to do to his own earlier. But where he feels, even still, as though it just looks like he might have messed his up on the bike ride over, Keith pulls it off effortlessly. He looks more like a model than anyone Lance has ever seen in his life—so polished and perfect and so otherworldly that Lance wonders if all of the articles that he’s read about photoshop in photo shoots were all perpetuating a myth.

There really are people so beautiful that they look even better in person than on those glossy pages. He’d just never imagined, in all of his romantic daydreams, that he’d ever see one of them up close.

“You’re running pretty late,” Shiro says, pushing himself up from the couch and moving around just out of Lance’s line of sight, “Lance has been waiting down here for almost half an hour now.”

Keith’s cheeks immediately darken, somehow even further than they already were. He crosses his arms over his chest, stumbling a bit as his weight struggles to settle naturally without his brace against the wall. He clears his throat, and Lance can’t even laugh at how awkwardly he’s trying to play it cool.

He can’t smile, he can’t turn to see why Keith is glaring so hard in Shiro’s direction.

He can’t do anything right now but stand here, admiring how picturesque Keith still manages to be, despite his embarrassment, despite the scowl on his face, despite the way that it seems as though he’s just now noticed Lance staring, and he’s wriggling around uncomfortably under his gaze.

“We—we should leave then.” Keith is the first one to move, and he does so quickly, with a jerk of his arms to grasp Lance’s wrist, and a squeak of his boots against the floor. “I’ll be home later. Bye.”

Shiro tells them to be careful, but his words are muffled and muted, beneath the blood running rapidly in Lance’s ears. His heart pounds in his throat, his head swims. Keith is touching him again. It feels, right now, as though it’s been decades since another person’s skin against him has felt so good.

Keith’s fingers wrap around his wrist—gentle, but firm—just beneath the sleeve of his jacket. He throws open the door, tugging Lance over the threshold before turning and slamming it shut. It’s a blur of sputtered heartbeats as Keith pulls them down the stairs and towards his bike in the driveway. It feels as though time is bouncing around everywhere around him—as though it’s a split second and an eternity before Keith is pulling away and asking if he’s ready to leave, then pausing to stare him down as he stands here, slack-jawed and lost for words, instead of answering or mounting his bike.

“I-I’m sorry,” he chokes out, finally tearing his eyes away from Keith, “I… I need a minute. I—I wasn’t expecting for you to look this beautiful tonight.”

Keith makes the strangest noise that Lance has ever heard from him—some kind of croak of a laugh, or a stranged yelp. Something low down and gravelly in his throat, as though he isn’t even sure how he’s wanting to react right now. Lance’s eyes are trained to the concrete between his feet, as he breathes in and out, as he tries to work out the residual nerves and the surprise that still roots him in place, enough to step forward and climb onto his bike.

But out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Keith crossing his arms over his chest, lowering his head. And he can see the tip of one boot scuffing against the ground.

“I could say the same about you.”

Keith clears his throat.

“You… you already looked nice last weekend, but I—I’ve never seen you dressed up before.”

He leaves that statement hanging there, as though he doesn’t have the nerve to say anything else. As though he hopes, desperately, that Lance will connect the pieces and take that as a compliment.

And he does, of course, because he’d like to think that he understands Keith by now. That after everything that’s happened, after everything they’ve said to each other, that Keith isn’t lying when he tells him that he thinks he’s cute—that he doesn’t have any sneaky intentions. That he can somehow genuinely look at a person like Lance and find him as beautiful as Lance finds him too.

“Uh, th—thanks.” It’s awkward and stilted. Keith lets out a breath of a laugh. “I guess… we should go then.’

Keith nods in his peripherals. It’s embarrassing, admitting things so openly, but for whatever reason, he still feels as though it’s a load off of his chest. He feels as though, as long both of them are on the same page here, maybe Keith won’t judge him too harshly if he lets his emotions get in the way of his good judgement and general charisma tonight.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Keith asks him, stepping forward tentatively just as Lance slings his leg over one side of his bike and settles himself on the seat. “I guess we didn’t really… plan that part.”

Lance sits still as Keith climbs on behind him, holding his breath and steeling himself for those warm, firm arms as they wrap around his waist. His mind is still short-circuiting from the mere sensation of it, but he tries to think of somewhere to eat.

And he thinks about Keith’s love of soft, easily-destroyed food. He thinks about Hunk’s suggestion, and about his earlier thoughts of watching Keith eat under the soft lighting in a nice, romantic Italian-restaurant setting. That’s where the people always go in the movies, he thinks. Those are the sorts of restaurants where people express their love, where they propose marriage—where the protagonist realizes his love for a beautiful woman, and the two of them solidify their budding relationship with a late-night kiss in front of her door.

“I’m kind of in the mood for Chinese,” Keith says, “Shiro was talking about this new restaurant in town that has a buffet for like ten dollars.”

Lance can feel his stomach rumbling. He can’t deny that Chinese food sounds good to him too.

But… it’s not romantic. It’s not the kind of Earth-shattering, heart pounding first date that he’d fantasized about taking Keith on all week. He can already imagine the sticky fingered children dragging their hands over the sneeze-guards. The loud, drunken couples slurping their chow mein in a greasy booth right across from them. He can picture how the overbearing lights might make the flaws in his appearance even more evident—enough so that Keith might regret calling him cute earlier, and every day before now.

But Keith is telling him excitedly about how much he could go for some dumplings.

“You’ll have to try Shiro’s mom’s cooking someday,” he says, “It’s better than restaurant food, but Shiro says this is almost as good.”

It isn’t romantic like he was hoping, but he wonders if the neon lights inside might remind Keith of sitting with him outside of the convenience store. He wonders if they’ll crack open their fortune cookies at the end of dinner, and if the paper inside might tell Keith, _“The love of your life is sitting across from you right now.”_

With a small, quiet sigh, that he hopes that Keith can’t hear, he pushes forward against the ground, coasting along the driveway until he reaches the street. He relishes the feeling of Keith pressing up against him again—thanking his mom for his bike, silently. Thanking every force in the universe for making him foolish enough to build a legendary, imaginary love story up in his head all because a random clerk gave him, what he thought at the time, was extra cheese.

And he thanks himself—feeling just a little bit foolish about it—for taking the chance with Keith.

Because he’s warm and his skin is soft where it connects to him. His breath is slow and hot against the back of his neck. He smells like expensive cologne and hairspray. He feels like a puzzle piece that’s snapped together with him, just right.

“Chinese it is then,” he says, regaining all of his shattered bravado tenfold, feeling as though, no matter where they go, nothing is going to dampen his enjoyment tonight, “Do you know how to get there?”

Keith nods against his back. He can feel the heat on his cheeks, the way that his fingers lace together against his chest, how he holds on a little tighter.

He leaves the Shirogane household far behind him, winding through the streets, around the parked cars. Through the bike lanes and the green-lit street lamps, into another part of town that he barely recognizes.

Keith directs him softly. The sun sets far off beyond the trees.

It’s chilly, even under so many layers of clothing.

 

* * *

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Well! Looks like our little boy is out on his first real date. I’m so proud, I could cry right now. _

_**Hunk3141** : Do you think he’ll be okay? I mean, I know Keith seems nice and all, but we don’t really know him that well. And he also seems kind of, you know… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Dangerous? Like a lit fuse? Needlessly aggressive? Just as weirdly obsessed with Lance as Lance is with him? _

_**Shaylar-Quantity** : I think they will be okay, Hunk. They seem very nice together, don’t you think? Do not worry about them too much, I’m sure they will be okay. _

_**Hunk3141** : I know, Shay, but… I don’t know, man. I worry! Our little bird is leaving the nest, and what are we gonna do if he doesn’t wanna hang out with us anymore? What if he just wants to talk to Keith and we’re not cool enough for him? _

_**Shaylar-Quantity** : You know that isn’t going to happen, Hunk. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : It’s more likely that he’s going to drag Keith into this chat too. God, I can already imagine all of the gross baby-talk. Let’s enjoy this chat while it’s still rated PG. _

_**Hunk3141** : Ugh, don’t even mention that, Pidge! Don’t jinx us! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Can you guys quit it?! I’m still getting notifications, you know! I can see everything that you’re saying about me! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : And since when have I ever said anything NOT rated PG about Keith?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You’re right, Lance. Sorry. Wouldn’t want to sully his perfect, pure image with all of your impure thoughts. Better be careful, or he might actually catch you checking out his butt one of these days. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, bye! I’m not doing this right now! _

 

_—-LadiesLoveLance has left the chat—-_

 

* * *

 

Keith is moving gradually through the buffet line in front of him when Lance angrily pockets his phone. He drags in a deep breath, forcing his eyes just between Keith’s shoulder blades and adamantly reassuring himself that he’s never creeped a peek anywhere lower than that.

Pidge is wrong. He doesn’t have impure thoughts. Imagining how it would feel to kiss the guy isn’t impure! And neither is enjoying the feeling of Keith pressed so firmly against him—and sure, yeah, maybe those weird yoga thoughts last weekend were headed in darker directions, but he didn’t even dwell on them for _that_ long! And it’s not like he’s a horrible person for thinking about it again… and again, and _again_.

He bites his lip, reaching under the sneeze-guard to spoon some rice onto his plate. He tries to clear his thoughts, to think only about how hungry he is and how good everything smells. To reassure himself that a slightly fancier Chinese joint than he’s used to is still romantic enough for all of his fantasies to come true, especially since Keith picked it out, just for the two of them.

But then he’s worrying about _why_ Keith chose this place. He’s wondering if Keith might have selected it solely because it seemed cheap to him. If maybe he’d put a lot more thought into everything than he’d claimed, and he’d thought that maybe Lance was too poor to afford anything that was better.

He wonders—dread pooling his chest and breaking through the levy of his ribs, to seep heavily down into the pits of his belly—if Keith has already figured out what a deadbeat he is. If maybe, he’s resigned himself to the idea that he’ll have to pull their weight financially in this relationship, if he ever wants to do something fun that isn’t free.

He doesn’t like even the imaginary implication that he can’t provide for Keith. He works hard for what he has. His family did just fine while he was growing up. So what if they didn’t have everything? So what if he’s still saving up for his first car?

He could have afforded Italian, dammit! He might have blown his entire paycheck on it, but he still could have paid the bill and tipped too— _graciously_ , even!

“You don’t like Chinese?” Keith is turned around now, balancing his plate—piled high with so much food that Lance is surprised that none of it has toppled over. He’s watching Lance with rounded eyes, his brows pulled low and tightly knitted together. “We didn’t have to come here if you don’t like it.”

Lance snaps the tongs in his fingers together, straightening his posture and reaching hastily forward to grab a generous bundle of noodles.

“N-no, it’s fine!” He laughs a little, nervously and unconvincing. “I was just thinking, uh—sorry, I… I really like Chinese. It’s okay.”

Keith smiles then—faintly, but it’s still there. He turns around again, grabbing his own tongs and placing a few dumplings on top of his mountainous pile, for good measure.

“Good,” he says, “it’s my favorite.”

Lance isn’t sure why Keith is always capable of reassuring him without even knowing what he’s worried about. He doesn’t know if he’s really that easy to read, or if maybe they truly are just made for each other.

But he feels relief rush through him immediately—at the suggestion that Keith had no ulterior motives here, aside from simply eating his favorite food with a guy he likes. At the idea that maybe, for once, no one is trying to coddle him or shield his fragile ego from the big, bad world.

Keith is just as simple sometimes as he’s sometimes very complicated. He comes from a spotty past, lives a complex life that he still doesn’t seem entirely comfortable in. But he does what he wants, when he wants. He says exactly what he wants to say. He doesn’t waste his time sugar-coating anything. He doesn’t tangle webs of white lies. He doesn’t feel the need to spend time with people who he doesn’t like.

And it’s a relief, all over again. It’s a reminder of the fresher air here—the first big gulp that he’s taken since leaving home. That Keith isn’t going to mislead him, or keep secrets. That Keith is only here right now because he agreed readily to this date, and he wanted to eat with Lance. He wanted to eat food that he likes with the _person_ who he likes.

Lance piles so much food onto his plate that it nearly rivals the mass on Keith’s.

And they make their way to their booth, tucked away at the far corner of the room, away from the small, spotty crowd.

Keith slides in across from him, and he doesn’t waste time chatting before he starts to eat. He’s messy and quick, but something about it is still cute anyway. Like he’s waited all day to eat something, just so he could enjoy this meal more. Like he was so excited that he had to skip breakfast, then lunch, and maybe he’d been craving this food so much that he couldn’t settle for anything else.

And it’s strange, watching him eat this cheap meal, after Lance has spent so much time being reminded of the fortune growing only bigger and bigger in the Shiroganes’ bank account. It’s weird, thinking of Shiro eating here too, maybe, with the pristine and elegant Allura. The thought that any of them could lower themselves to eating like the regular peasants in this town makes him feel both surprised and guilty. He still has trouble imagining any of them behaving like normal people.

He still struggles to remind himself that they’re just as flawed and human as he is.

Keith is slurping now, and Lance remembers how he’d fiddled with his slushie so much last weekend. How he’d downed it so quickly that he’d stained his lips blue. He wonders if the Shiroganes have tried signing him up for etiquette classes, or if maybe, they think that his eager hunger is just as cute as Lance does.

Slowly, Lance takes a bite. And it’s good. It tastes better than any of the ramen noodles that he’s downed over this semester. It tastes almost as delicious as the sandwiches that Keith makes with so much love.

They eat together, in a silence that isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as Lance would have expected for it to be. And they enjoy each others quiet presence, until Lance is too full to continue, and Keith’s plate is practically as clean as it was when he grabbed it off of the rack.

Keith wipes his face with his napkin just as the waitress stops by to drop off their check, along with two fortune cookies, and a friendly request for both of them to have a good day.

And they both reach for it, without thinking. Their fingers bump together.

Immediately, Keith’s eyes are ablaze.

“You’re not paying for this.”

It takes everything within Lance not to shirk away at the mere force of his suggestion.

“Of course I am,” he says, his voice cracking, only a little, “I invited you on the date. I pay.”

“I still owe you for last weekend.”

“You paid me back by coming here today.”

Lance struggles not to jerk back as Keith leans forward, sliding his fingers under the checkbook as though he’s going to tear it away. And Lance feels as though his heart is jammed midway up his throat, as he instinctively pushes his hand forward, resting it over Keith’s.

Keith’s cheeks are bright red by now. He jerks a little as Lance’s hand wraps around his. For a moment, it seems as though he might relent.

“It doesn’t work like that.” Keith’s voice is so low and forced that it seems as though he might be in physical pain. His cheeks are redder than the bottle of sriracha sitting next to him on the table. “Shiro pays for his dates with Allura. I’m paying for my date with you.”

Keith takes advantage of his momentary shock by pulling the checkbook closer to himself, but Lance breaks out of his daze at record speed—far too determined to do this right to get caught up in how adorable Keith is, or how truly, this date must mean just as much to him as it has to Lance, ever since they agreed to it in his driveway last weekend.

He tugs at it, trying to pull it closer to his side of the table, but Keith’s grip is ironclad. And he flounders, for a mere moment, as he feels the waitress watching them warily through a labyrinth of empty tables. He wonders how long they could sit here bickering before she’d decide to come over and offer to split the check.

Keith’s stare is unwavering, and it’s hard to think while he’s being watching so closely. He wonders, as his fingers curl tighter around Keith’s wrist, if those beautiful blues have some kind of brain-scrambling technology embedded beneath them, or if he really is such a fool in love that he can’t even look at the guy for more than a single second without getting too gooey in the knees.

And the tech idea has him thinking about movies—wondering what all of the great romantics might do in his current predicament. They’d be clever, he thinks. They’d think on their feet. They’d come up with a plot so solid and an argument so unshakable that the other person wouldn’t be able to poke any holes in it.

An idea begins to blossom at the back of his mind. The corners of his lips curl up in a smile.

It’s stupid, he knows, but it’s just as cute.

And it’s exactly the sort of thing that he thinks such a go-getter like Keith might fall for.

“Alright,” he says, taking a moment to clear his throat and sit straighter in his seat, “how about, I pay—”

Keith bristles, growing somehow even more indignant.

“—But,” he cuts back in, just as Keith opens his mouth, raising his other hand to emphasize that he isn’t done yet, “we play a game. And if you win by the end of the night, you can pay me back. If I win, though, I get to pay for the date.”

Keith eases into a more comfortable, less aggressive sitting position, but he doesn’t move his hand and he doesn’t speak. He raises one brow, sucking in the side of his cheek as though waiting for Lance to continue.

Lance does, but with less confidence than he might like. He stumbles a bit, as he writes the rules in his head seconds before they leave his mouth.

“Like truth or dare, you know? The first person to turn something down loses, and the other person pays. Obviously nothing… gross. But no free passes and no bending the rules!”

He shoves a finger up in the air, squaring his shoulders—attempting to hone as much authority as he can possibly muster while Keith’s eyes are still burning tiny holes into his skin.

But Keith’s smile is vicious, predatory. At once, the slow-burning fire within him engulfs into white-hot flame. It’s as though, at the mere mention of a challenge, he’s risen like a phoenix from the ashes, as a bigger, stronger, somehow even _better_ Keith.

Momentarily, as Keith’s canines poke out of the corners of his smile, and his fingers curl around the edge of the check, Lance is reminded of the “cat and the goldfish” metaphor, that he’d considered last weekend, in front of the convenience store.

Now, more than ever, he wonders if he might have been onto something with that one.

“You’re on.”

Keith moves his hand, but Lance knows that this isn’t a victory. He shouldn’t start celebrating just yet.

Keith’s smile is so wide—so cocky and determined and _hot_ —right now, that he almost doesn’t seem like the same person, from just moments ago.

It’s terrifying, it’s invigorating.

And as they rise from their seats and the waitress jumps to attention at the counter, he’s ready to start testing just how unwavering Keith’s devotion to win might be.

He’s in for a wild ride tonight. That much he knows, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I hope you guys had a good weekend, and I hope you have a very happy and safe new year! This week’s chapter is the very last one that I’ll be posting this year, and I’m excited that I get to see the new year off with some happy cheese! 
> 
> So this week, cheddar is the favorite cheese of **Squelette** and **rainingooblah**! The whole time I was editing this, I just kept thinking of that scene in A Goofy Movie ("Cheddar AH-OOOOH!"), which I think was only perpetuated by the fact that I got some Goofy Movie related Christmas presents, haha! But Cheddar is a pretty solid cheese, even without the references!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it! We’re truly in for… quite the adventure next week! Thank for reading!


	14. Swiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight’s Specials: More dares than truths.

_—-LadiesLoveLance has joined the chat—_

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Aren’t you on a date? _

_**Hunk3141** : Maybe Keith’s in the bathroom? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Maybe Keith told him that he was going to the bathroom, then he just never came back. _

_**Hunk3141** : Pidge, don’t say that! Don’t jinx him! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Keith isn’t in the bathroom, calm down. I just have to tell you guys something. _

_**Hunk3141** : Whew, okay. But what is it? _

_**Shaylar-Quantity** : Is your date going well, Lance? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Yeah, it’s fine, I just… Pidge. I need to be honest with you. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh God, are you finally going to admit that you were the one who spilled soda on my calc homework sophomore year? Because I already knew that was you, Lance. There’s no reason to interrupt your first date to tell me. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : That wasn’t me! And that’s not the point! Can you just let me say this? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Fine, speak up! No one is stopping you! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Pidge… I just… I thought chasing after Keith was the right thing to do. I thought he was the one for me. But I was wrong, Pidge. All this time, the right person was right in front of me. _

_**Hunk3141** : Oh no. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Pidge, I think I’m in love with you. I love the way that you sweat more than any guy I’ve ever met. I love how mean you are to me. I love… how you can’t laugh without squirting milk out of your nose, and how you always kick anyone within a foot of you with those stubby little legs of yours when we have sleepovers. I’ve fallen for you, Pidge. So hard. You’re the gross, nerdy, sailor-mouthed girl of my dreams. _

_**Hunk3141** : Lance… is everything okay? Did you hit your head? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You’re in love with me, huh? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : From the first time that you farted and shoved my head under the blankets, I knew you were the one. _

_—-SchrodingersPigeon has kicked LadiesLoveLance from the chat—-_

_**Hunk3141** : Pidge! It was just starting to get good! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Why are we friends with him? _

_**Hunk3141** : He confesses to you so sweetly and you just kick him? That’s cold, Pidge. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I’ll kick you too! Don’t test me! _

 

* * *

 

Keith is laughing, and Lance can’t say that dealing with Pidge’s wrath later isn’t going to be worth it. He’s covering his mouth with his hand, his cheeks flushed pink, as he masks the little snort that threatens to tumble out with his giggles, through his fingers.

They’re sitting side by side, pressed together on a ledge just outside of the Chinese restaurant. Not many people are around, as the sun disappears completely behind the trees and rooftops obscuring the horizon. Only the streetlamps illuminate the strip around them now. They’re the only people lingering for so long outside after finishing their meal, but no one pays them any mind.

For all any onlookers know, they’re just two friends enjoying a video on Lance’s phone. Lance didn’t just prod a sleeping lion with a stick. He didn’t just pretty much guarantee that Pidge is going to give him a hard time about this for the rest of his life.

His phone is already vibrating with a flurry of new, hysteric texts from Hunk.

_‘Dude, are you okay?’_

_‘Are you in trouble? Is someone forcing you to send us cryptic messages?’_

_‘Lance, please, if you’re in danger, send me something innocuous! Like… “Nice weather we’re having”, or something that you’d never say, ever. You know, “Man, Keith is so ugly and I hate him”, “Boy, I do hate extra cheese!” Something, anything, and we’ll figure this out, okay?’_

_‘Lance?’_

_‘LANCE?’_

Keith’s laughter dies down, and it feels nice, sitting so close together. Keith is always pretty, sure, but especially right now, as he’s enjoying his small victory and Lance’s own self-made humiliation. As he’s reveling in his very first dare going pretty much exactly how he’d hoped it would. Maybe even better, Lance isn’t sure. But he’s still laughing pretty hard, as though this is somehow the most fun he’s had in a long time.

And Lance can’t help but feel a little cocky about it, no matter how much he’s dreading facing his friends after this date is over.

“Okay, okay,” Lance says, turning off his phone and shoving it in his pocket, “I’m living on borrowed time now, man. So I gotta make my dare a good one. I gotta enjoy the rest of tonight, because I might not be alive tomorrow.”

Keith laughs again, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.

“She really didn’t believe you, for even a second,” he says, “Does she really squirt milk out of her nose?”

Lance’s smile broadens.

“If she’s drinking and she laughs, she always ends up squirting it out of her nose. She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, but… man, she’s _way_ grosser than I am.”

Keith draws in a deep breath then, sobering up. His smile stays in place, as he gazes up through the trees and the powerlines into the night. His eyes settle over the smudge of the clouds over the moon, and his hand on the ledge feels, suddenly, so close to Lance’s.

Close enough, that if either of them had the nerve, they could lace their fingers together.

Keith clears his throat.

“So… aren’t you going to ask me _‘truth or dare’_?”

He knows that Keith is going to choose a dare. Since Lance took that leap first, he understands that Keith wouldn’t take what he must consider to be “the easy way out.” But he asks it anyway, because he’s realizing that he’s not very good at not giving Keith everything that wants, exactly how he wants it—when he’s looking so pretty, bathed in the yellow of the streetlamps, with chilly color brushing at the tip of his nose, just as it did last weekend.

“So… pick your poison. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, obviously.”

Lance pushes out a deep breath, biting the inside of his lip. He should have been thinking about this while he was messaging Pidge, or while he was paying the waitress inside of the restaurant. He should have, at the very least, had some kind of arsenal of questions that he would ever want to ask Keith, had he ever gotten the chance to actually ask them.

Instead, he looks around the streets. He feels lost here, as he struggles to figure out what might be akin to the horrible, albeit fairly mild dare that Keith put him through.

_‘Text your friends something that’s gonna make them think that you’ve lost your mind.’_

It was clever, for the first try. Lance wonders how determined Keith is to win this, if he’d started with the big guns without hesitation.

He could make Keith call Shiro or Allura and tell them something bizarre too, but he doesn’t want to copy off of Keith’s idea. He could make him go back into the restaurant and do something humiliating, but he doesn’t want to open the invitation for Keith to do the same sort of thing to him.

Finally, he sighs, watching the stars and the satellites in the sky, wishing that the moon were clearer and fuller, so he could see more of Keith in the dark.

“I dare you to… go stand in the middle of the street, hold your hands over your head, and as loud as you can… yell whatever you’re thinking about right now.”

Keith twitches beside him, swallowing audibly. He risks a look over at him, his grin returning tenfold as he takes in the horrified, wide-eyed expression that Keith is sending in his direction.

“You gotta do it, dude,” he says, forcing all of the laughter and excitement out of his voice—trying, helplessly, to be as cool and calm as Keith had been when he’d proposed _his_ dare, “unless you’re _really_ okay with losing on the first turn?”

Keith glares at him then, huffing hard and loud through his nose before pushing himself off of the ledge. There’s a small group of people standing across the street, chatting quietly among themselves after leaving a restaurant. There’s a clerk in front of one of the stores a few yards away, wiping down the glass of their front door.

There are no cars out tonight, as most people opt to take the bus or walk to the many bars and restaurants. Since parking is so scarce, that finding a spot is nearly impossible on a Saturday night.

It won’t be dangerous for Keith, for the short moment that it will take for him to complete this task, but he already looks mortified. He already looks as though he’s wondering if he should have just allowed Lance to pay and spared himself this humiliation—if this is only the _first round_ , in a long series of tasks that will only grow more horrible until one of them gets so embarrassed that they inevitably give up.

He drags his feet as he moves out into the street, looking both ways for cars, before walking out into the center. And he turns in Lance’s direction, a glare so hot on his face that it seems as though it might be lighting up the dark.

He raises his arms over his head, slowly. His hands shake—from the cold, from his nervousness. Lance isn’t sure.

And he drags in one long, quaking breath. He closes his eyes, tips back his head, so his mouth faces the cloudy, starless sky.

“I—” he cuts himself off, scuffing his feet against the street and clearing his throat. It seems as though he’s having a very hard time hyping himself up to do this. “I—I um…”

Lance almost tells him that it’s okay to quit. There’s no shame in losing. He almost steps forward and pulls him away from the road, because he’s standing out there a lot longer than Lance was expecting. But what could be so bad about yelling, anyway? Just whatever he’s thinking—not even anything embarrassing! What, is he mortified that he’s thinking about how good their dinner was? How much he wanted to pay? How it’s kind of chilly, or maybe how it’s disappointing that it’s so cloudy out tonight because it would have been nice to stargaze?

Whatever is going through his head can’t be worse than everything that Lance has been thinking about all night. He can’t possibly know that Lance hasn’t stopped obsessing over how beautiful he is since he met him, and it’s the one, singular thought that’s been twisting about in his brain all night long. He just can’t imagine that Keith could understand it, that he could be thinking about anything nearly as embarrassing.

He’d thought that it was an easy dare, that maybe he was giving Keith a free pass until he could think of something better.

He’d thought, after his experiences with Keith so far, that yelling wouldn’t be this hard for him. He’d seemed to manage just fine last weekend, after all. He’d seemed pretty eager to keep going, if only Lance would have let him.

But Keith is shaking so hard in the street that Lance can even see it in the dark. His hands are balled into fists, and his voice never stops trembling, even as he finally lets loose a booming, echoing bellow.

“I—I’M ON A DATE WITH A REALLY CUTE GUY! WHAT IF I MESS UP AND SAY THE WRONG THING?! HE’S SO NICE, AND COOL, AND—AND I REALLY LIKE HIM!”

Lance can’t even laugh, not how Keith had, when he’d completed his dare. He can’t make a joke out of this, or some kind of snarky comment about how terribly the poor, unassuming people had jumped—how a woman had dropped her to-go box in her fright when Keith had yelled, or how the clerk a ways away had let out a small gasp of surprise and nearly fallen over at the sound of it.

He can barely piece these moments together—between Keith yelling, then lowering his arms. Between the echoes of Keith’s voice bouncing around in the empty street before they fade away, and Keith moodily stalking back towards him and pushing himself up on the ledge again.

“There,” Keith says, low and flustered, but Lance can barely even hear him, “I did it. So now it’s your turn.”

Lance clears his throat, forcing himself back down to Earth. Keith had called him cute. He’d said that he was nervous, that he was afraid of messing this up. That he thought he might say the wrong thing. In a short, loud declaration, he’d summarized all of Lance’s own feelings and thrown them right back in his face, as though somehow, in this reality, he could possibly understand anything that Lance might be feeling during their date right now.

As though, maybe… he actually feels that way too.

“T-truth.”

Keith snorts, his smile curling up at the edges.

“Coward,” he says, but he doesn’t push it further than that. If anything, Lance thinks that he might be relieved. As though maybe, he’s having just as much trouble thinking of dares as Lance is, “Okay, so…. Let’s see…”

He’s looking at the sky again, his brows low as he juts out his bottom lip in thought. He’s so close to Lance right now that he could kiss him, and it takes everything within Lance not to regret choosing “truth” instead. Because why would Keith even dare him something like that? Surely, despite everything, Keith can’t possibly be hoping that things move as quickly as Lance is right now. He might like him, yeah, that’s undeniable at this point. He’d said it loud and clear.

But it’s unrealistic, he tells himself, to imagine that anyone could have fallen quite as hard and fast as Lance has.

“How did you get home, you know… after those kids stole your clothes in high school?”

The questions drags him out of his inner monologue immediately. Of all the things that Keith could have asked him, it’s the last one that he would have expected.

But he wonders if this is okay. If just the idea that Keith knows this, and he feels comfortable enough to ask about it…

If maybe that’s a sign that it really is over. It’s in his past now, and the mark of it is slowly fading away from his life, the more time that passes.

He lets out a laugh—short, stilted, nervous—combing a hand through his hair.

“I ran for like a mile,” he says, color immediately pooling his cheeks, as he thinks about how terrified he’d been that night, “this old lady was driving home from grocery shopping or something. I guess she lived around there. I really thought I was gonna give her a heart attack when I jumped out of the bushes naked, but, uh… she drove me home. She didn’t really think it was funny either, but… I didn’t ever see her again after that.”

Keith nods slowly, his face mirroring the same anger that he’d expressed so loudly last weekend, only muted. More solemn. He leans in just a little bit closer, as though he might rest his head on Lance’s shoulder.

Their hands still linger so painfully close together, but Lance can’t bring himself to close the gap between them. Through and through, he’s still too chickenshit to actually do everything that he wants.

“If I ever see that guy again, I’m going to kill him.”

And Lance can’t think of anything clever to say in response to that.

Instead, he clears his throat and asks Keith, “Truth or dare.”

They sit in quiet for a moment together, as Keith leans just a little bit closer, as their fingers bump on the ledge. As their breath mingles in small clouds in the strands of light in front of them, and the group of people across the street begins to slowly break apart.

After a short stretch of time, that Lance can feel fleeting far too soon, Keith tells him, “Dare.”

And Lance knows that he’s never been very good at keeping his mouth shut. He knows that many times before this, his inability to be quiet and keep his thoughts to himself has gotten him in a lot of trouble.

Hell, even since he’s started talking to Keith like this, he’s gotten frightfully close to getting beaten up, just because he somehow lacks the talent or self-control that it requires to not overshare whatever is currently flitting through his stupid, empty head.

But Keith flushes in such a pretty way when his words escape him, all on their own. He swallows deeply, bites his lip. He shudders for only a moment before complying without argument.

“I dare you to hold my hand.”

It should be mortifying for him to say it right now. He should be sputtering desperately, trying to take it back.

But Keith’s hand slides into his, and those long fingers lace together with his own in such a perfect, comfortable way. Keith is warm in the cold, evening air. Keith is comforting and soft, _real_ and so close. And he’s flicking his gaze down the opposite side of the sidewalk, as though he’s run out of snotty things to say about any of this.

Lance can’t beat himself up too much over this, because it seems as though maybe, despite Keith’s nervousness, he might have been wanting to do this too.

“It’s your turn.” Keith’s voice is barely there. “Truth or dare?”

Lance feels so elated right now that he almost calls the whole game off. He almost thinks that this is worth allowing Keith to win—if maybe Keith will accept the victory with grace, and still continue to touch his hand.

But he doesn’t want this to seem as though it was all just a ploy to get this far. He doesn’t want Keith to think that he started this whole thing with such a dirty trick in mind.

At the very least, he doesn’t want Keith to think that his game is truly so weak that he needed some kid’s game to make a move. He might have done a beautiful job of making himself out to be the biggest loser imaginable thus far, but he’s determined that, despite literally everything that tells him otherwise, Keith might be able to keep on believing that he’s some kind of Casanova.

“Dare.”

It feels right, at least. It feels like, after everything Keith has done now, he needs to step up his game as well. He doesn’t want to end this date with Keith thinking that he’s coasting through it. As though all of the work was on Keith’s shoulders alone, and Lance played it safe with the “truths”, without taking the same risks that Keith did.

And he trusts Keith now. After all of their conversations, their interactions, the information between both of them that so few other people know. Keith’s hand is soft, and his breath is warm. His body is still pressed so close to Lance’s, and it seems as though he isn’t planning to move any time soon.

Lance knows that his dare won’t be anything terrible. Embarrassing, maybe, but in good fun. It will be something simple, and small. Something that won’t push either of them too far, or ruin things between them.

No streaking, no humiliating himself. He knows Keith well enough to understand that Keith doesn’t enjoy making him miserable. He isn’t the kind of guy who get some kind of thrill out of watching other people get hurt.

“Okay, so…”

Keith’s words trail off. He isn’t looking Lance in the eyes. His grip tightens around Lance’s fingers, and he presses himself even firmer against his side.

“I dare you…”

He seems to be having a lot of trouble getting the words out, but from the determined, low drag of his brows and the flat line of his mouth, Lance knows that he’s made up his mind.

He turns to Lance then, his eyes wide and round, his irises nearly black in the dark. He’s watching Lance with a seriousness on his face that makes all of this suddenly feel important—life or death, Lance thinks. There’s another tiny storm brewing behind that frown.

“I dare you to kiss me.”

The words are heavy and quiet, a rain cloud threatening to burst in a gray-scale sky. They’re barely pushed out, barely audible above the distant laughter of other people enjoying their nights—the motors of cars, the honking horns. The thrumming music from bars at the end of the strip.

But Keith doesn’t give him a chance to comply or give up. He doesn’t smile smugly, he doesn’t tell Lance, _“I knew you didn’t have it in you, I win.”_

He doesn’t hesitate before he leans forward, still grasping Lance’s hand.

And he presses their lips together—wrapped in the darkness on the ledge in front of the Chinese restaurant, folded together in their own quiet bubble, safe and all alone. The two of them, kissing. Keith’s hands on his hands. Keith’s nervous laughter nothing more than a small, hot burst of breath on Lance’s chin.

Lance doesn’t see stars. The planets don’t collide, the world doesn’t skitter to a sudden, jarring halt. It doesn’t feel like God himself has reached down and wrapped his arms around him, as though everything that he’s ever done in his entire life has lead him to this single point in time.

But it feels nice. It’s warm and soft. It’s gentle in a way that he never would have thought someone like Keith was capable of.

And he knows, in this moment, what Hunk had told him before.

He’s fallen in love with Keith Kogane.

He can’t ever imagine a part of his life that doesn’t have Keith in it.

“I’m sorry,” Keith tells him, “I stole your dare… do I lose then?”

But Lance doesn’t answer, not with words. He can’t bring himself to talk.

He only leans forward and pulls Keith close, kissing him again, then again and again. Until neither of them know where they are, who they are, or which way is up anymore.

And he thinks, privately, that neither of them could lose this game.

Not when it’s ended like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Happy Friday, and I hope you guys had a happy new year! This is my first cheese update of 2018, and I feel like I’m sort of… starting the year with a bang, haha!
> 
> So this week, swiss is the favorite cheese of a very good friend of mine: **Muzuki_chan**! I think swiss is a very underappreciated cheese, so maybe… this week, we can give it the love that it deserves. (I feel like these notes always make me sound like a cheese fiend, like some kind of cheese aficionado, and I can’t even really argue with that much. I’m from the midwest US, please give me a break!)
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! See you next week!


	15. Raclette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's Specials: Two grande caramel cappuccinos, extra whipped cream. One large heart-to-heart in a crowded coffee shop.

It’s 8pm by the time that the two of them get too cold to stay outside. The temperature had dropped an extra ten degrees as the crowds around them depleted even further—as the clouds moved about in the sky and finally revealed the crescent of the moon—and even their interlocked fingers, and their bodies pressed so closely together, weren’t doing a good job of keeping them warm anymore.

Keith led them to a coffee shop near the end of the strip, telling him that it wasn’t _“the worst place”,_ before pushing open the door and pulling Lance in behind him.

And they still haven’t stopped holding hands, all this time. Lance isn’t sure if that means that the game is still going on or not.

He feels a little too overwhelmed to say much of anything, and frankly, he isn’t even sure if he could walk straight right now without Keith’s help—let alone ask questions, or think about anything but how nice it feels to continue touching Keith, as though the two of them might never break apart. As though they’re bound now, for life.

Keith ushers him towards a table in the back. The windows are fogged up with enough condensation that Lance has to resist the urge to disrupt the surface with his finger. Keith asks him what kind of coffee he likes, and after everything that’s happened tonight, he’s nearly too light-headed and committed to his new life on cloud nine to understand what words mean.

He settles on something easy enough. He’s never been very good at making split-second decisions.

“Whatever you get.”

Keith sends him a flat look, but he doesn’t argue. And Lance misses the contact of their fingers laced together the instant that Keith finally pulls away.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, “I hate standing in line… but there’s no reason for both of us to be up there. It’s too crowded.”

Once he winds through the various groups of other customers, shoving his way towards the line leading to the counter with more aggression than Lance feels comfortable watching from afar, Lance is finally left alone to collect his thoughts.

If he takes a moment to finally draw on the window, Keith doesn’t have to know.

And if his choice of condensation-doodle just happens to be _“L + K =”_ with a loopy little heart underneath it, Keith doesn’t have to know that either.

It takes a monumental amount of effort to stop himself from turning his phone back on and gushing about all of this to Hunk and Pidge, immediately after it’s happened—while everything is _still happening,_ even. He’s still on thin ice from his earlier infraction, he’s sure. He can’t imagine that he’d be able to express the utter importance of everything that’s happened tonight without spending all of his time reassuring them that he hasn’t lost his mind first.

There will be more time for that later, he knows. There will be an entire night to go over all of it, and an entire Sunday off to repeat it as many times as he’ll need to before it starts to feel real.

He’ll memorize all of the tiny details in his head—how Keith’s breath had felt like warm, summer dew against his face. How Keith had tasted like minty toothpaste, too—how he’d gripped Lance’s hands in his own so firmly that it seemed as though he didn’t believe that he was living in reality either. As though, if he wasn’t touching as much of Lance as he could at once, maybe he’d awaken to the sound of his alarm, and the realization that none of this had really happened.

He’s watching Keith talk to the barista as he thinks about Keith’s nervous laughter, about the tentative way that he’d pulled away. He thinks about all of the kisses that followed—how they’d been so wrapped up in their own private moment that the sudden sound of a car accelerating down the street in front of them had ripped them violently out of dreamland.

And Keith had kissed him again, one last time.

“It’s getting kind of cold.” he’d said then, releasing one of Lance’s hands to reach up and brush a stray strand of hair from Lance’s face, smiling at him as though he’d just wiped sand away from buried treasure hidden on the beach. As though, somehow, he could have possibly thought that Lance looked beautiful when he was surely making the dopiest expression imaginable. “I know a place where we can go. It’s kind of noisy, but… it has hot drinks.”

Lance would have followed him anywhere at that point in time. Granted, he can usually imagine himself tailing behind Keith into the mouth of an active volcano with no complaints, but that’s really not the point.

He’d been so lost in the clouds that he hadn’t really thought about arguing. Or even choosing his own place for them to settle down, instead of continuing to shove that responsibility off on Keith.

He shouldn’t be accepting the role of submissive lover this easily. He should be stepping up and taking control of things, wowing Keith like he’d always fantasized that he would. He can imagine Jack Dawson rolling over angrily in his watery grave—but then he has to pause to reprimand himself for making such a crude mental joke—and before he knows it, he’s down such a rabbit hole of various movie references and silent accusations that he can barely even remember what he was originally so upset about.

 _But_ —he takes a deep breath, retracing his winding trails of thought as he watches Keith crossing his arms over his chest, visibly uncomfortable with the amount of time that he’s been forced to interact with another person in order to get their drinks—it _should_ matter that he’s stepping down and playing the _Rose_ role in this hypothetical _Titanic_ situation. But Rose was strong, and she was opinionated—she knew what she wanted and she went out and got it.

And tonight is so cold that he can imagine himself clinging desperately to a shattered piece of a ship in a dark, unforgiving ocean. He’d like to tell himself that he’d be smart enough to move himself out of the way so that Keith could climb up too.

But even still, he isn’t sure if he’d be bold enough to ask Keith to draw him like any French girls. He can’t imagine, as hard as he tries, that Keith would be crass enough to do that sort of thing either.

Then he’s thinking about Keith splayed out on a plush, velvety couch, and his thoughts plunge into such perverse depths that he starts to wonder who must have cranked the A/C up an extra ten degrees.

So he forces himself to stop thinking about it.

It doesn’t matter if Keith has swooped in as the proverbial dark horse tonight and salvaged this date from his clumsy, destructive hands. They’ll have more dates in the future. He’ll have as many chances to woo Keith as it might take for him to finally work up the courage to do it.

They’ll have a nice night. Keith won’t sketch any steamy portraits of him. He won’t spread his arms out wide at the tip of a big ship.

But it will be nice. And peaceful. With no loud, violent, watery end.

He can’t even remember what point he was trying to make with all of this anymore. He wonders if Keith has ever seen _Titanic_ , or if maybe their next date can involve the two of them cuddling up in his dorm room over a bowl of popcorn, and whispering sweet nothings to each other for an entire three hours as they watch one of Lance’s favorite romances unfolding on his tiny laptop screen.

Keith is pointing at something on the menu now, and Lance can’t bring himself to regret coming here, no matter how much his mind might be urging him to be more romantic. For all of the time that he spent planning all of this out, he can’t say that it’s ended up even remotely similar to what he’d expected.

But… if he’s honest with himself, it’s only been better.

In all of his daydreams and hopeless fantasies about tonight, he never would have allowed himself to consider that it would actually end with so much _kissing_ , and touching, and generally… good things.

He can still barely comprehend it. If his lips weren’t so tingly and warm, even still, as though Keith truly did brand him this time, he might not even believe it.

Keith steps off to the side, arms still crossed over his chest, as he waits for the barista to make their drinks. He sends Lance a short, quick look, his cheeks darkening from pink to scarlet as he catches Lance watching him.

But Lance doesn’t avert his gaze. He doesn’t allow this moment to slip away. Instead, he smiles, tipping his head to the side and barely hating himself at all as he sends Keith a wink.

He never knew that a person could turn as many shades of red as Keith. He wonders, for scientific purposes, if he should test out just how dark he can get.

Keith jerks his head away, after flattening out his mouth and widening his eyes. He tightens his arms around himself, looking just as offended and mortified as he had the very first time that Lance had allowed his fat mouth to say everything that his scattered thoughts were feeding it, but this time, Lance can’t bring himself to regret any of it.

He understands now, that every misstep somehow led him in the right direction. Somehow, no matter how many times he thought that he’d put his foot in his mouth and mangled his potential relationship with Keith to the point of no return, it only propelled him further and further towards everything that unfolded tonight.

He thinks about romantic movies, when he finally allows his gaze to stray from Keith pretending to ignore him, to the muted blues and browns of the walls around him, the professional photographs of steamy black coffee, the posters about specials, the gentle reminders to be careful with hot drinks, and the low-hanging lamps casting mood-lighting over every individual table and booth.

He thinks about the concept of two people being made for each other—how he’d always wondered if that concept was in any way rooted in reality. He’d always thought, growing up, that he was too awkward and strange. He fumbled too much—with his words, with his relationships, with the fleeting interactions that he’d had with any person who he’d wished would give him the time of day. He’d always suspected that maybe there really was someone for everyone, except for him.

And he’d thrown himself into Hollywood romances because it felt real. It seemed like something solid to believe in, when real life was disappointing, and he never would have thought that another person could have been just as ill-equipped to handle social interaction as he was.

But Keith isn’t weird like him, not really. He says almost everything with great purpose, spends the extra time to think through every word that leaves his mouth, and he never blurts out the kind of inane garble that Lance feels that he’s practically famous for by now.

Keith says that he isn’t good with people, but he’s not the same as Lance. If he practiced a little, got a little better, trained himself to handle people more tenderly, Lance thinks that maybe, he could be someone like Shiro. He could be the kind of guy who everyone seems to love immediately, with nothing more than a charming smile and a quiet, heartfelt greeting.

Keith wasn’t born damaged, and he’s not—even after everything that’s happened to him. He’s clever and brave. He loves tenaciously, feels every emotion with an unabashed intensity that Lance would have thought could only exist in his own imagination.

Keith is a beautiful thing, he’s said it again and again, ever since the day that he first laid eyes on him. He’s a startling, all-consuming fire. He’s unapologetic and awe-inspiring. He’s a hurricane ripping through the foundation of everything Lance thought he knew about the world around him.

To Lance, Keith is nothing short of the most perfect person, but even still…

Keith kissed him.

Keith held his hand.

Keith chose him, above anyone else.

“Shiro used to tell me that I looked like I was burning holes in things when I was thinking too hard.” Keith’s voice—too close, too soon—tears him out of his thoughts. It takes an overwhelming amount of self-control not to shoot up in his seat and screech unceremoniously at the sound of it. “So… stop burning holes, I guess. I got your coffee.”

Lance takes the cup from his hands with a quiet thanks, willing the warmth from his face as Keith slides into the seat across from him. He tells himself that he isn’t just a little bit disappointed that Keith didn’t decide to squeeze in next to him, just so they might be able to hold hands again.

He lets out a shallow breath, watching the steam rising from the lip of his cup as he waits for it to cool down. He really doesn’t want to burn himself tonight, not in front of Keith. And he knows that he’s always been pretty sensitive to pain—hot drinks, papercuts, stubbing his toe on the edge of furniture…

Pidge used to give him a hard time for crying so much when they were kids, but after so many years of living with this condition, he’s beginning to suspect that he just feels physical sensation with an intensity that normal human beings could never hope to understand.

He wonders, momentarily, if there’s some sort of special scholarship for that kind of thing.

Keith is already taking sips from his cup, resting his gaze on the foggy window, and the lowlit streets beyond it. Lance worries for a moment that he might actually catch sight of his embarrassing drawing, but he isn’t even sure if Keith can make it out from this angle, and it doesn’t seem as though he’s paying close enough attention anyway.

To busy his hands and his suddenly-rampant thoughts, he turns his drink over, studying all of the labels and directions with newfound interest. It’s one of the generic cardboard mugs, just like the ones that they have back at school. The sleeve is customized with the coffee shop’s logo, and there’s a small stretch of space for the baristas to scribble down customers’ names.

When he flips his over enough to read the writing—so sloppy and quick that he almost can’t decipher it at first—his heart drops down into his stomach.

Between Keith’s fingers, he can see _“Keith”_ written very clearly in the same sloppy black sharpie. But on his own—he stifles a groan.

_“Lane”._

For a moment, he wonders if his parents named him an abnormal name. Is it really so hard to remember “Lance”? Five letters? One syllable? He swears that he’s heard it before, on some kind of television show, in the movies. He’s found his name printed on tourist trinkets easily while on vacation. His teachers never got it wrong in school.

He sends Keith a glower, wondering, with growing dread, if maybe the barista didn’t get it wrong.

If maybe, after all this time, Keith still isn’t so sure what his name actually is.

He’s scouring his thoughts for any shred of information that might prove this idea wrong. But for the life of him, he can’t remember a single time that Keith referred to him as _anything_ , after he finally corrected his mistake that first time.

Keith turns to him then, as though he senses the mood around them dropping from an elated buzzing to something darker and heavier. He knits his brows when he catches sight of Lance’s downturned lips, obviously confused as Lance swivels his cup around and shoves it closer to his face.

“Really?” Lance asks him, “Did you really tell them to write this?”

Keith turns his head slightly, as though he’s unsure of if he should get defensive yet or not.

“Write _what_ ? _Your name_?”

Oh God. _Oh no._

He knew that something wasn’t quite right here. He knew that this date seemed entirely too good to be true.

Keith leans in a little closer, squinting as he prods a finger against the letters on Lance’s mug, one at a time.

“L-A-N-E—that’s right, isn’t it? I thought I told him clearly enough. What’s the problem?”

He’s so huffy and indignant now that Lance almost drops it. He almost commits himself to spending the rest of his life being called by the wrong name—convincing his parents, Hunk and Pidge, and everyone else who he might introduce Keith to that “Lane” is just a cute pet name. That it’s Keith’s tongue-in-cheek way of referencing their first awkward encounters, and not Keith still neglecting to get his name right after all this time.

Suddenly, Keith snorts. He pulls his hand away, taking another sip of his drink.

“I’m kidding, obviously,” he says flatly, his voice whistling as his breath hums inside of the lip of his mug, “The guy wrote it wrong, but I told him not to worry about it. Not really worth wasting the cardboard. You didn’t really think I’d get your name wrong, did you?”

Lance isn’t sure if he should feel relieved or mortified. On one hand, of course, it was a joke.

On another hand _, it was a joke_.

And he knows Keith well enough by now to understand that joking isn’t exactly a normal thing for him.

“You’re kind of sensitive about stuff like that, aren’t you?” Keith asks him, seeming as though he’s picked up on how unfunny his little prank was, and he’s eager to move beyond it. “I mean… like what people think of you. It really gets under your skin when people don’t understand you.”

It’s a little discomforting, being read so easily by a guy who’s dragged him through such a long series of emotions in such a short stretch of time. But he nods anyway, dumb and lost for words. He finally risks a drink of his coffee, relieved, at least, that it doesn’t betray him.

It’s caramel, he can tell. Caramel and enough whipped cream that his single sip is nearly all sugar. But it’s cooled off enough by now that it goes down easily.

He allows the sweetness of it to settle into his taste buds before he says anything in response.

“My friends say that I kind of… _romanticize_ things. Like, I get ideas in my head about how I want things to happen, then when real life doesn’t add up… I get really disappointed.”

Keith hums in acknowledgement, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he fiddles with his mug in his hands. For a moment, he draws his gaze back towards the window, narrowing his eyes as he focuses on something in the dark outside that Lance can’t quite make out.

“Was it like that with me too? Like… you had expectations about me, and I didn’t live up to them?

The question catches Lance off-guard, even though he feels as though it shouldn’t. It’s the natural flow of conversation, he thinks—from questions about himself, to questions about their budding relationship. This is how people talk. This is how they get to know each other.

But even still, he struggles for a moment to come up with the right words to say. He doesn’t know right away how to address this, without making himself seem like an even bigger stalker than before.

“Well, uh…” He allows that sentence to trail off. He wasn’t really sure where he was going with it anyway. “When I met you, I kinda thought you were some kind of… angel…”

He laughs then, in a feeble attempt to mask his own embarrassment.

“But you’re not, o-of course. I mean, you’re a person. But… I think… you ended up being better. I ended up liking you more as a person than whatever dumb thing was in my imagination. The more I got to know you, the… the better you were.”

Keith is watching him now, with pinker cheeks, wider eyes. He swallows thickly, jerking his head down and staring hard at his coffee. The breath that he pulls in is shaky and long. The cup in his hands is twitching about as he trembles, softly.

“I’m not that interesting, or… good,” Keith says slowly, quietly, “I’m not… like you.”

Lance almost argues—almost allows himself to word-vomit everything that he’s thought about Keith since he met him. He almost tells him how wonderful he is, how attractive he is, how he’s so interesting and cool, so mysterious and compelling that he’s the only thing that Lance has been able to think about for weeks—but Keith cuts him off. He’s talking so slow, so dreadfully quiet. Lance has to strain himself to even hear the sound of his voice below the chatter of the crowds around them, and the low beat of the music playing through the speakers overhead.

“You know, when I saw you, that first day… I couldn’t understand why you kept looking at me like that. Why you… said weird things. Why you were talking to me like you wanted to say something, but you wouldn’t just say it. I was so mad about it that I went in the back room right after I gave you your food and asked Shiro about it. And he laughed at me. He said something like, ' _Keith, I think that guy thought you were cute',_  but that didn’t make any sense. I thought he was wrong.”

It’s horrifying, hearing about this now. Realizing that Keith must have actually been as annoyed with him that first day as he’d imagined. And Shiro, of course, must have been in on it the entire time. He must have recognized Lance even when he added him online. He must have been waiting for that confession— _”I added you because I have a crush on your brother”_ —but instead, Lance blocked him, ghosted him, purposefully avoided him for weeks.

And if he hadn’t put the pieces together before, Lance knows that he surely isn’t so confused anymore.

He makes a mental note to delete his Facebook account when he gets home.

Hell, maybe all of his social media—even the Twitter account that he rarely uses. It’s not worth it, he thinks. He needs to be more like Keith, remove himself from the technological world. Live under a rock, find happiness in knowing that he’ll never be able to make an ass out of himself while cyber-stalking someone ever again.

He’ll remove the temptation. He’ll live an honest, admirable life.

And if Shiro asks him about it later on, he’ll tell him, _“Sorry, I don’t have any social media. It must have been some other creep.”_

But Keith is still talking, even as he’s having this mental breakdown. He forces himself to stop his panicked planning, and to focus instead on the words leaving Keith’s mouth.

“But he asked me if I thought you were cute too, and… it was weird. I hadn’t really thought about that kind of thing before. But… you were. You were a cute guy who thought that I was cute too, and… you kept coming back. And you never stopped talking to me, like—I don’t know, like you thought I was some kind of amazing person or something—”

“Because you are.”

Keith offers him a mortified look in response to his interruption. After a short, torturous silence, they both elect to pretend that he didn’t say anything.

“I—I just… I still don’t really get it, I guess. I don’t know how my parents ended up together. I don’t know how Shiro’s parents met. Is it really… this easy? You just like someone and they like you too, and… you’re together? Even though they’re cool, and nice, and… attractive, and you’re… not? That—that’s okay?”

It takes Lance an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that Keith isn’t saying that _he_ isn’t attractive—that Keith is talking about himself. He’s been nodding his head through this entire conversation, agreeing with everything that Keith’s saying, wondering if maybe Keith’s working out the idea of dating some guy way below his radar and deciding that yes, it’s totally fine to get together with some weird, stalkerish loser if he likes him enough.

But Keith is looking at him expectantly now, as though he’s thinking that perhaps, Lance has suddenly realized that he’s not good enough and this entire date was a mistake. He doesn’t know how to respond to any of this—to Keith’s own insecurities, that he never would have thought were a possibility, to the shocking revelation that Keith thinks he’s cute.

And yeah, sure, everyone has been telling him this all this time.

Keith’s done a good job of mentioning it as often as humanly possible.

But even still, he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of believing it, and every time that the thought crosses his mind, he’s so tongue-tied and lightheaded that he can’t think of anything else.

“I—I think it’s okay,” he says tactlessly, shaking his head and cursing quietly under his breath. He takes a moment to compose himself, taking another sip of his coffee to busy himself as he struggles to calm his nerves, “But… you are—I mean, you're cool, and nice… and you’re the most attractive person I’ve ever met. I-I mean, I’ve spent all week thinking about this date, okay? And I had all of these dumb ideas about it, like—like, this jacket?”

He pauses for a moment, setting down his cup and taking his jacket between his fingers, pulling it forward as though to present it to Keith.

Keith looks at him with confusion, flicking his gaze slowly from the little camera symbol on the front of it to Lance’s face, as though he can’t piece together what his jacket possibly has to do with any of this.

“I—I wore it on purpose tonight, you know? It’s… it’s the jacket for my major. I’m… a media major. And I’m really proud of it, and I thought it would impress you, and I thought—I thought maybe, I’d offer it to you if you got cold, and you’d keep it or something, and I’d get to see you wearing it… and… that made me really happy, uh, like… a really cute guy… wearing my jacket.”

Keith stares at him for a moment in silence, biting his lip. They watch each other—Lance’s heart a racket in his chest, his body so alive with skittering nerves that he feels as though he’s vibrating.

And then, as though all of this is a very elaborate nightmare—as though Lance is going to look down and find that he’s forgotten to wear pants to a midterm that he neglected to study for—Keith laughs.

It’s not a loud, barking laugh, and it doesn’t last very long. It’s timid, soft. It’s pink-cheeked, eyes trained down to the table. It’s Keith covering his mouth again, his brows low and close together. It’s barely anything but a murmur under all of the noise around them.

“I-I know, it’s stupid, but—”

“No, it’s not that.” Keith is firm when he interrupts. His face is still red, but his expression is suddenly serious. “It’s not stupid, I—I mean, I don’t think it’s stupid. It’s just, uh, I did the same thing. I picked this jacket because I thought you’d look good in leather, and… I thought maybe, since you didn’t wear one last weekend, I could give this one to you.”

Lance isn’t sure why every confession that comes out of Keith’s mouth continues to throw him off. He isn’t sure if surprises could even be considered surprises when he’s completely expecting to be surprised every time.

Or why, despite the fact that he’s always steeling himself to be shocked by whatever Keith has to tell him, he’s still… shocked. Why, for whatever reason, he could ever expect for Keith to tell him something that didn’t completely shake the foundation of everything that he thought he knew about them—their relationship, and the fragile romantic world around them.

But he takes it in stride, regardless. The terrible little squawk that leaves his mouth is barely horrifying at all.

“W-well…” Keith is looking at him now, and his mind is doing a beautiful job of erasing each of his thoughts as soon as he begins to have them. He imagines now, that his brain is some kind of whiteboard, and every time he tries to make a mark, the sticky-fingered, obnoxious child that lives inside of him smudges everything so terribly that he can’t decipher real human speech. “Uh… why… why don’t we just… trade then?”

It’s so stupid, but Keith doesn’t react as though he thinks so too. He only shrugs, setting down his cup and leaning back, grasping his jacket by the shoulders and easing it off of himself.

He slides is across the table, mindful of their coffees in a way that Lance doesn’t think he’d be nearly smooth enough to be. But Keith thinks of everything, all the time. He’s considerate and thoughtful in a way that has Lance wondering if the true James Bond might be Keith, and he might actually be the pretty thing that hangs off of his arm instead, in this fictional scenario.

He’s already the Jack Dawson, that’s for sure. But Lance isn’t sure if he’s emotionally capable of giving up James Bond too, just yet.

He shakes away those thoughts, pushing out a nervous breath.

And he removes his jacket as well, shivering against the newfound cold for a mere moment before grasping Keith’s jacket and pulling it towards him.

When his arms slide into the sleeves, it’s stiffer than he was expecting. And it’s real leather, he can smell it. He says a tiny prayer for all of those poor cows, wondering if he’s really any better, with the amount of cheeseburgers that he’s been known to inhale during fast food outings with Pidge and Hunk in the past.

But beyond the leather, it smells like cologne. Like hairspray. Like something biting and earthy, musky, that he thinks might be just Keith.

It isn’t nearly as small on him as he was expecting, and his jacket fits Keith almost like a glove. The navy pops against his skin tone just like Lance hoped that it would. He looks like all of the pretty models in the school catalogs, posing about on the glossy pages in an attempt to mislead him into thinking that he could also look just as good while wearing it.

“I was right,” Keith says suddenly, a small smile on his lips, the color never leaving his cheeks, “You do look good in leather.”

He wants to tell Keith, _“Well, you look better.”_

He wants to say, _“I’ve never worn anything this expensive before.”_

He wants to say everything and anything—something clever, something cute. Something that will make Keith finally realize just how much all of this means to him, and how tonight feels so perfect that it might as well be a fantasy that he’s conjured up in his head.

Instead, he opens his big, stupid mouth. He speaks in a voice so squeaky and unsure that he sounds like he’s a kid again.

And he says, clumsily, unthinking, “Now I can ride on your back forever.”

But maybe it’s enough.

Because Keith spits a laugh, so open and unabashed, so devoid of any of his carefully-crafted walls, his usual brusque silence. He laughs so hard that tears begin to dot the corners of his eyes. And Lance laughs too, because it’s too hard not to.

“That’s the weirdest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Keith tells him, snorting at the end of another long laugh, then raising a hand quickly to cover his face.

And it’s cute, it’s worth it. Because Keith is laughing because of him. Keith thinks that he’s funny.

Pidge might tell him that he’s just a hopeless fool in love, if she could see him right now. Hunk might say that he needs to be more careful.

But his coffee is just the right temperature when he takes another sip. Keith is radiant, in his sudden good mood. And his jacket is comfortable, warm. It smells so nice, like a home that Lance has never known before this.

And tonight is a good night. After everything he’s been through, for the first time in his life, everything has worked out even better than he could have ever hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Happy Friday! This week’s cheese, raclette, is the favorite of another friend of mine: **DracoSH**! I’ve never had it before, but I think she tells me how delicious it is at least once a week. I told my husband, “You know… when I finish this story, I think I just need to buy a little bit of all of these cheeses and have a cheese sampling party.” haha!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it! Thank you for reading!


	16. Halloumi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight’s Specials: Record scratches, small confessions, and the shocking conclusion of Truth or Dare.

It’s even colder than Lance remembers when they leave the coffee shop.

His discomfort is remedied very quickly, as Keith slips a hand tentatively into his own, but he can’t help but wonder if the summer is leaving early this year. If maybe, it’s a good thing that he finally has a warmer jacket to shield him from the colder air in this town.

They walk aimlessly for awhile, looking up at the sky in search of a few stars behind the blanket of clouds. Lance finds himself distracted by Keith’s breath hanging in the air in front of him—the shallow pinkness of his cheeks, the dark shadows and occasional golden hue of streetlamps playing with the swirl of deep colors in Keith’s eyes.

He wants to tell Keith,  _ “I think I fell in love with you tonight,” _ but he isn’t entirely sure how. Even though he still can’t forget what Hunk told him—that he’ll know when he loves someone, and they’d never laugh at him for admitting it—he still isn’t sure if it’s too soon or not.

Because as it is, he can’t deny that Keith likes him. He can’t deny that Keith’s enjoyed their date tonight, he thinks that Lance is cute, he likes spending time together, and he’s thought about almost every embarrassingly romantic thing that Lance has.

But is it  _ love _ ? That, he isn’t so sure of. When Keith glances over, does he look at him with the same expression that he’s seen his dad wearing when he looks at his mom? When he bites his lip, when he hesitates for a moment before speaking, is he suffering in silence, worrying over all of the confessions that he wishes that he were man enough to make?

Was there a moment for him tonight—when they held hands, when their lips connected for the very first time and it felt as though all of his dreams were suddenly cemented into beautiful, tangible reality—did Keith have that moment of clarity as well? Did he think to himself, just as Lance did,  _ ‘This is the guy who I want to grow old with’ _ ?

There’s no way to know for sure. No matter how much Lance might wish for it, he can’t read Keith’s mind. He’ll never know what he’s thinking, exactly what drives him to do what he does, or what sorts of wishes or daydreams sleep behind his unreadable, flat line of a frown.

He’s left only with the small secrets that Keith gives away in his body language—the way he flushes, how he sometimes shirks away. How he wraps around himself and shakes, as though he’s terrified of the intensity of his own emotions. And how he smiles too, and laughs, and opens up so beautifully and naturally that it’s hard to remember that all of this isn’t normal for him.

He’s only left with a few quiet confessions, and a whole lot of compliments. A couple clips of gossip from Keith’s loved ones, that could never be enough to tell him everything that he wants to know.

“Do I have coffee on my mouth?” Keith reaches up with his free hand, rubbing it roughly over his lips. “You’ve been staring at me for like… ten minutes. Like you wanna rip my face off or something.”

Lance thinks again about  _ “burning holes” _ . He thinks about how Keith might see him, what he must think of him right now.

But he manages to sputter out some semblance of an apology, and finally, he looks away.

“I-I’m sorry,” he mutters, “I was just zoning out. You’re fine—I-I mean… you don’t have anything on your face.”

_ “—Anything but a bunch of handsomeness,” _ is what he almost says, but thankfully, he bites his tongue just in the nick of time. He imagines that he’s only allotted three or four truly mortifying pickup lines a night, and he lost count hours ago. He wonders if maybe there’s an app for that kind of thing, or if maybe his final project in his marketing class—the one that he’s been putting off for weeks now—can be pitching the invention of such a thing.

For an assignment to “create something that will be useful for modern communication”, he can imagine that an app that stops you when you’re about to put your foot in your mouth would be heaven sent. He’d be the first customer—the poster boy, even! He can’t possibly be the only useless idiot who can’t stop himself from saying whatever ridiculous thing is floating around in his thoughts. He’s one of the worst offenders, sure, but he can’t imagine that there aren’t more sorry suckers wandering through life just like he is: always terrified about whatever evil is about to leave their mouths without their full consent.

Keith breathes out a laugh, dragging in another deep breath only seconds later. He squares his shoulders, swinging their interlocked hands as they walk. It seems, to Lance, as though he’s making a show to distract both of them from the fact that he can’t think of anything to say right now. Lance is familiar with this sort of thing. He does it all the time.

But it’s still a little weird to think that Keith could do it too. That he’d ever be nervous, or feel inadequate. And it’s not because he seems perfect, or suave, or always in control, but…

Lance just can’t imagine that he wouldn’t enjoy practically anything that Keith could say to him. He could grab him by the shoulders right now and tell him,  _ “You know what, this was a mistake. Please take me home and delete my number. I never want to see you ever again,” _ and Lance would still hang off of every word coming out of those pretty lips as though it were his favorite line from his most treasured movie.

“You’re a weird guy,” Keith tells him then, pausing again, as though he’s thinking very carefully about what he wants to say, “I mean, it’s not a bad thing. You just seem like you think a lot… like, you think about  _ everything  _ so much. You have it all planned out.”

Lance laughs before he can stop himself. It comes out as a short, clipped bark—so loud that it echoes in the empty, dark streets. Keith doesn’t jump at the sound of it. As always, it seems as though nothing can truly surprise him.

“I guess I do,” he says, scratching the back of his head with his free hand, “I mean, usually I’m completely wrong about everything that I plan—I-I mean, everything ends up totally different. But I always get distracted thinking about the  _ ‘what ifs’  _ anyway. Kinda…  _ romanticizing _ things, I guess.”

Keith nods once, sharply. He tightens his fingers around Lance’s, letting out a long, low breath and walking just a little bit slower. He tips his head, chin to the sky, and squints as though he might be able to make out the constellations through the clouds, if only he concentrates hard enough.

“I gave up being hopeful about things a long time ago,” he says quietly, “after my dad disappeared… when I was moved to that group home. I—I don’t know. I just kept thinking that maybe he’d come back. Or some nice, new family would come and pick me up. I spent a lot of time dreaming about it, but the older I got… the dumber it seemed to hope for it. Like, if you’re a good kid who does his chores and doesn’t talk back to the caretakers, Santa’s gonna bring you a real family. Like, if you say enough prayers and cash in enough  _ ‘good boy’  _ points, some God or whatever is going to smile down on you and make everything okay.”

It’s a sudden dip in the conversation, and at first, Lance isn’t sure how to react. But he chooses to stay quiet. He imagines that, like Shiro, Keith is going somewhere with this. He knows that Keith isn’t the sort of person to talk about his feelings if he thinks that they aren’t important. He isn’t looking for pity, or a shoulder to cry on.

Everything that Keith says means something in a way that Lance isn’t sure any of his words ever could. Keith’s small conversation is valuable, every word perfectly selected, every sentence crafted together in a way that never gives too much away—never reveals more of himself than he’s comfortable saying at once.

He’s closed off, even now. He’s only telling half of this story, Lance can tell.

Lance doesn’t want to think about the omitted details. He doesn’t want to think about the day that Keith decided that Santa wasn’t real, or the moment that he stopped hoping.

So he forces himself not to, and he keeps listening. Keith is talking slowly. He isn’t saying everything, but Lance can see the storm brewing in his eyes, in the tight line of his jaw. He can imagine the memories playing like a projection against the back of those eyelids, when Keith blinks. When he drags in a shuddered sigh and grits his teeth before he continues.

“It just seemed idiotic to keep hoping for anything. It felt like life just happened, you know? We’re all thrown into existence, we all bounce around aimlessly. We’re like—those little dandelion things, the ones that float around in the air. We can try to fight the wind, but we’re still gonna keep floating. We’re still gonna keep being pushed through life no matter how much we tell ourselves that we deserve something better.”

Lance hums low in his throat. He hasn’t lived what Keith has lived, but he knows the feeling. He understands the thought process—the idea of being pulled by life’s ocean current, of ending up only where fate needs him, and never being given the opportunity to truly make his own choices.

For a moment, he thinks about the fact that some people still have his video. He thinks about the idea that, for the rest of his life, he won’t have any control over what they do with it.

And for some reason, that doesn’t bother him anymore—not how it used to. The thought of it doesn’t make him want to curl up in his bed and sleep. It doesn’t make him want to hide his face forever.

It just makes him feel sad. For the miserable people who hurt him, the idea that their lives are so rooted in that one moment of his humiliation, and they’ll never be able to understand how cruel it was.

He isn’t sure if he feels sorry for them or not. If he even cares enough to feel anything anymore. He doesn’t know how he would react if they ever apologized, or if he knew that they were riddled with guilt, tortured over that one horrible thing that they’d done to another person.

He wonders if the wind will ever lead him back to any of those people. If maybe, someday, he’ll find himself in a position where he might have to choose to forgive them.

He shakes his head. He still isn’t sure how he feels about any of them. He just hopes that fate will keep him away from them for the rest of his life.

He wonders if that’s how Keith feels about the mother who abandoned him, the father who disappeared.

Or the woman who took advantage of the Shiroganes’ kindness so soon after they first brought him home.

“But…” Keith’s voice drags him out of his monologue. And when he turns his eyes back to Keith’s face, the pinkness has risen to his cheeks again. He’s staring very hard at the ground between his feet as he walks. Lance wonders, idly, if he should be allowing Keith to lead them down the winding sidewalks when he’s obviously not paying attention to where he’s going. “I started hoping again, when the Shiroganes adopted me. I felt really stupid at the time, like it was  _ dangerous _ to hope or something. Like I’d get there and they’d realize what a bad kid I was and send me back. I only had one bag of clothes, and I didn’t unpack it for a month. That’s how determined I was that it wasn’t going to last. That… they’d realize that they’d picked wrong, and they’d be frantically trying to figure out how to un-adopt someone.”

Lance takes in the way that Keith’s lips purse together, how his jaw becomes less tense, how his brows ease out, the tension in his muscles ebbing away until he looks normal again. As though none of this was hard to say. As though it’s just regular conversation, and he isn’t dropping another hefty weight from his shoulders.

And Lance can’t help but feel a little proud of him, even though these stories always make him sad. Even though they always make him feel as though he should have done something, built a time machine, went back in time and told a younger Keith,  _ “Hang in there! Your happy ending is just around the corner!” _

“So… I came home from school one day and Shiro’s mom had unpacked my things. She washed my clothes and hung them in the closet. And… I wanted to be mad at her for touching my stuff. I wanted to just… freak out about something. I just wanted to have a reason to hate it there because it would make it easier when it didn’t work out, you know? I hated that they made me hopeful. I hated that I was comfortable around them and they were nice. I just… I didn’t think it was possible to be that happy with other people. Like, I could just be myself, and they were fine with it! Even when I was bad, or mean, or… loud. They still loved me. They made me feel like I could do anything and they’d still be there.”

“That’s how family is supposed to be,” Lance tells him, and Keith nods, biting the bottom of his lip.

Lance begins to recognize their surroundings. They’re nearing the Chinese restaurant again, and the bike rack a few blocks away, where he chained up his bike. They pass by the ledge where the two of them kissed, just hours before. They pass by the street where Keith yelled, the front door of the shop where the clerk nearly fell over in fright.

Lance can’t help but smile. Those memories feel distant now, but somehow, still warm inside of his chest. Still tingling against his lips.

“When I met you, I thought I was pushing it.” Keith laughs then—a low, bashful sound. His bangs have fallen into his eyes, but even in the dark, under that mop of hair, Lance can tell that his cheeks are as hot as they’ve ever been. “I—I mean… with the hoping. I thought, you know, I hoped for a family. I got a really good family. But I can’t possibly hope for more than that. How many _ ‘good boy’ _ points and chores equal an awesome family and a cute boyfriend, you know? Seems like the kind of thing that only saints and martyrs deserve.”

Lance is stuck, momentarily, on the mention of the word “boyfriend”. His thoughts jitter in it, like flies caught in a glue trap. Like the time that he accidentally scratched his sister’s Britney Spears tape and the words would stutter over  _ “Baby” _ an extra six times before moving on to the next verse.

That’s his mind, right now— _ ’B-B-B-Boyfriend’ _ —over and over again, on a perpetual loop until Keith speaks up again.

They’re drawing closer to his bike. Keith tugs him forward, as his jellied knees threaten to buckle beneath him. Once again, he feels as though he might float away, up into the sky, if Keith were to let go of his hand.

“So I guess, what I’m getting at here is… I’m not a saint or a martyr. But… I’m still hoping. And… I don’t think it’s stupid to hope anymore. I think you’re exactly what I’d hoped that you would be, and maybe that’s a sign that all of this will be okay. And you don’t have to do some amazing, heroic thing in a past life or whatever to deserve just… being happy. Maybe you just need to take chances when they present themselves to you, so…”

He turns then, still not letting go of Lance’s hand. Lance is immediately lost in the black caverns of his eyes, falling dreadfully slowly, over and over again, in the deep, fervent trenches of love.

Keith’s breath is warm against his face, as he presses his other hand into Lance’s shoulder. Their lips meet only once—and quicker than Lance would like right now. As he opens his eyes, he catches Keith’s long lashes fluttering against his high cheekbones, before he’s staring back into those dark, dizzying blues again.

Losing himself, over and over again, inside of them.

“I have one more dare,” Keith tells him, “Lightning round. All or nothing. If you do this one, I’ll let you pay for the date.”

Lance nods dumbly. He doesn’t think that his mouth could work right now, even if he knew the right words to say.

Even if his brain wasn’t a useless record-scratch sputter of  _ ‘B-B-B-B-Boyfriend’  _ even moments after that sort of thing stopped being appropriate.

Keith’s lips are curled up at the edges. He seems just as cocky and determined as he did back at the restaurant, when Lance still had no idea where his stupid hack of a fumbled plan would lead them tonight.

His thumb is brushing tiny circles along Lance’s cheek, their breath is a single, thick cloud in the small, empty space between them. It’s so dark out now, in the black stretches between the streetlamps, that Lance can’t imagine that someone could see them tucked away, even if anyone else was around right now.

He thanks Shiro silently, for not actually asking for Keith to be home by ten. His phone has been turned off for hours, in fear of Pidge’s backlash and Hunk’s worried inquiries, and he hasn’t seen a clock since they first stumbled into the coffee shop, what feels like an entire week ago.

Keith’s forehead dips in the air between them, resting gently against his own. There’s a warm bubble wrapped around them, a security blanket in the dark, cold night. He feels as though the sun itself is radiating from inside of Keith. He feels as though the entire universe is pinpointed just here, right in the center of both of them—as though the planets are orbiting around whatever words are about to leave Keith’s mouth. As though time itself has halted, slowed. As though the chirping crickets and the thumping music in the distance has all been turned down, and it’s just the two of them, alone in a barren universe.

“I dare you to date me—like, as boyfriends. I dare you… to be my boyfriend.”

It’s the cheesiest thing that Keith has ever said to him. For a moment, he wonders when Keith reached inside of his brain and pilfered all of his best romantic moves and pick-up lines.

It’s enough to strike him speechless, for a few hard heartbeats. For a few shallow gulps of breath, and torturous seconds in which he wonders if he’ll ever be able to think straight enough to speak ever again.

Keith doesn’t push for an immediate answer. It seems as though he’s gotten used to how useless Lance is about these sorts of things by now.

But when the night ends, and the two of them mount his bike, when he relishes the feeling of Keith pressed up against him for the entirety of the ride home, and they dismount, kiss again, and say goodnight...

Lance is a winner in more ways than one. He goes home with a bigger bounty than he would have ever expected for a conquest that started on such shaky terms.

He goes home with the pride of winning truth or dare.

And the reward that he won’t be able to admit to himself is real until he brags about it to Hunk, then Shay, then Pidge, and all three of them together, at least a dozen times.

 

* * *

 

 

_ —-LadiesLoveLance has joined the chat—- _

 

_**LadiesLoveLance:** Sooooooo… I kind of have a boyfriend now. _

_**Hunk3141** : After you just confessed your undying love to Pidge? Man, she’s gonna be so heartbroken when she hears about this. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Happy Friday! So today’s cheese is the favorite of another very good friend of mine: **Poetic_Nothing**! Which, I think is very befitting, because it’s also the last chapter before her birthday on the 22nd! So (another) happy birthday to you! I hope this cheese was able to make it a little bit brighter. 
> 
> Anyway, next week is actually a very special week for me. I’m going to be out of town on the 24th and 25th to meet Dee, the person who this story was written for! I should be back in time to post the new chapter, and if not, I’m sure I can wrangle myself a computer just long enough get it out!   
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed it! See you next week!


	17. Parmesan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: Lovesick Lances, online conversations, and those gross little tapioca balls.

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : So, you’re in the Deli right now. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Of course I am. Where else would I be? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I don’t know, maybe… actually studying for your midterm? Did you even bring your notes with you, Lance? Or have you just been making puppy eyes at Keith for the last, what, two hours since you got there? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Give me a break, Pidge! It’s only October 5th! I have plenty of time to study! _

_**Hunk3141** : You do realize that the midterms are on the 15th, right? So, that’s not a lot of time. Do you really think you’re gonna be able to buy Keith that big, suburban house with the white picket fence and the three and a half children if you’re a college flunkie? I don’t think that’s how this sorta thing works, man. I think those sorts of minimum wage romance stories only exist in the movies. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I’ll study tonight, okay?! It’s not that big of a deal! I have ten entire days to study for this stuff! And I already know it anyway! It’s easy! Do you really think anything in my communications class is going to be a challenge? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I was thinking more along the lines of that biology class that you keep complaining about, but okay. We’ll live in denial land for the next ten days. You got this, Lance. I’m sure all of the answers to those formulas that you keep forgetting are hiding in the back of Keith’s pants. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Can you stop?! I DON’T look at his butt that much! I can’t even see it over the counter! _

_**Hunk3141** : but if you could… _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : UGH. BYE. _

_ —-LadiesLoveLance has left the chat—- _

_ —-LadiesLoveLance has joined the chat—- _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Wow, I think that was your quickest tantrum to date. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I forgot about something. I just need to ask you guys a question. _

_**Hunk3141** : Of course, man. Do you need help studying? Are you having problems with Keith? Already? Lance, are you having relationship problems? You know you can tell us anything. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh my God, Hunk. He got Keith pregnant. He’s going to ask if we can be Godparents to their twins. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just say that. I don’t even want to think about it. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : BUT, I wanted to ask, uh… I mean, me and Keith have been together for what, two weeks now? And you know I’ve been going to the Deli a lot… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You said “two weeks” like you haven’t been giving us the updates every single day. _

_**Hunk3141** : You can’t move out of our dorm to live in the Deli, Lance. I’m pretty sure that violates at least a dozen health codes. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : No! No, okay? Keith just… he asks about you guys. And I think he might like to meet you. I mean, I’ve met Shiro and Allura. And I think it’s kinda fair if he meets both of you, since… You’re kinda like my family too. _

_**Hunk3141** : Awwwwww, Lance, that’s so sweet, man! We’re like your found family! We’re like your home away from home. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Well, Mathletes ended last weekend, so I’m free Saturday. You said Keith usually gets Saturdays off now, right? Since both of you started requesting them off for gross couple stuff? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : ...I guess you could call it that. But I don’t feel like just going out to the movies or getting dinner is really… “gross”. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Potato, potato. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I don’t think that really works in writing, Pidge. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Just imagine that I was saying it out loud in different voices. _

_**Hunk3141** : Wait, so… why don’t we go to that new BOBA place on the strip? I’ve heard a lot of good things about it online! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Isn’t that the stuff with the nasty little slime balls? _

_**Hunk3141** : It’s tapioca, Lance. And you can order your drink without it. Even though that kind of defeats the purpose of Bubble Tea. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh! We could go to the Lion’s Castle theater after! They’re doing a $2 slasher movie marathon! They’re playing Dawn of the Dead all day Saturday! _

_**Hunk3141** : Oh no, I can’t do that movie, Pidge! You know I’ll be awake all week! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Well, that’ll give you plenty of time to study then, won’t it? Plus, we’re doing your terrible thing, so we should do Pidge’s terrible thing too. It’s only fair that Keith gets to see how equally terrible both of you are. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Thanks, Lance. Your support means so much. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : It’s settled then! What about Saturday, 2pm? We meet in front of the Booba Place. _

_**Hunk3141** : BOBA. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Whatever, I gotta go. Keith’s getting off now. See ya Saturday! _

_**Hunk3141** : Lance, I’m going to see you tonight. We live in the same room. _

_ —-LadiesLoveLance has left the chat—- _

* * *

 

 

Lance sets his phone down on the table, scrubbing a hand over his face as he watches Keith slipping through the door into the back room. With the same hand, he offers Allura a limp-wristed wave, just as she finishes donning her gloves and taking Keith’s place behind the counter.

Her attention is diverted to an approaching customer, just as it seems as though she might be opening her mouth to say something to him, and he’s thankful for that distraction. His interactions with Allura have been fleeting, at best, ever since he started dating Keith. He’s caught glimpses of her on the couch in the living room when he’s arrived at Keith’s house to pick him up for dates. He’s heard her voice chatting excitedly about something in the background of his phone calls to Keith during their rare overlapping lunch breaks.

And for the most part, he’s relished his newly discovered ability to avoid interacting with Keith’s family as much as humanly possible. It’s not that Shiro isn’t nice, and Allura isn’t obviously somehow even nicer. It’s just…

He doesn’t know what to say to either of them. He can’t comprehend what he could ever have in common with two people who seem so much higher above him. To a couple crafted from every perfect person that he could ever imagine, who seem as though they’ve never lived a bad day in their lives.

Even still, after all this time, he can’t shake the feeling that they aren’t really _ people _ . That somehow, they’ve been created for the sole purpose of continuously, albeit unintentionally, reminding him just how out of place he’s always going to feel among the people who mean the world to his new boyfriend.

And he knows that isn’t fair. It never has been.

Shiro didn’t judge him, or even question it, when he admitted that he had to drop the swim team in favor of track. It seemed as though he was aware enough that he understood not to press the matter too hard. He’d seemed, when Lance had talked to him, like a normal, down-to-earth kind of guy. Like a big brother who was just happy that his unruly younger sibling had finally found someone who made him happy.

And Shiro was perfectly clear about how much anguish has plagued his family when they spoke. He’d told that story unabashedly, as though he wasn’t completely ashamed of the weakness that it revealed in him. And it seemed to Lance as though maybe that wasn’t a new experience. He didn’t talk about it as though nothing bad had ever happened to him before that.

There hadn’t been an inkling there, that maybe he thought that Keith had brought something foreign and ugly into their family. That maybe, before he came along, they’d lived in the perfect, unshakable bubble that Lance still can’t shake from his thoughts.

Shiro and Allura are graceful and tactful in a way that he isn’t sure if he’ll ever understand. They’re gorgeous and untouchable, just like Keith used to seem. But unlike Keith, they haven’t become more human over time.  

Keith talks about Shiro as though he’s capable of being a normal, doting older brother. He talks about Allura as though she’s just as awkward and clumsy as everyone else.

But Lance still hasn’t spotted any of it. An ever elusive beast, he still has yet to catch sight of this mysterious Bigfoot creeping in his peripherals every time that he visits the Shirogane household—the proof that Shiro could ever be capable of writing “Allura Shirogane” in all of his college notebooks, or that Allura would ever lower herself to belching after taking a big gulp of soda.

Keith has told him these things, and many unflattering others. Keith told him about how Shiro always cries at the end of Disney movies, even if they aren’t sad ones. He talked about how Shiro’s too afraid to go to haunted houses in the fall. How Allura always gets too tipsy at family gatherings and ends up sleeping through half of them in the guest room, and how last Thanksgiving, she dropped the turkey on the floor while helping Shiro’s mother prepare dinner, and they ended up having to eat their dinner without it.

_ “The dog was happy, at least,”  _ Keith had said then, biting his lip to mask his smile, and the laughter that Lance could hear bubbling in his words, _ “Everyone was really nice about it. I think they knew how bad she felt. It was a Butterball turkey, so at the end of dinner, Shiro called her ‘butterball fingers’ and she laughed so hard at him that she spilled her wine down the front of her dress. She’s not intimidating, Lance. She’s about as scary as that Pidge girl who you keep talking about.” _

The stories sound normal, human. They sound like the sorts of average, commonplace things that people do. Keith talks about them easily, in a way that Lance knows he wouldn’t be capable of if he was lying—and really, he can’t think of a single reason why Keith would lie about them anyway.

He’s heard these eye-witness accounts from a trusted loved one, but, ever the skeptic, he isn’t sure if he can truly believe them until he sees them with his own two eyes. The problem lies in the fact that even now, Allura and Shiro are entirely too elegant and otherworldly for him to ever feel even remotely comfortable being alone with them.

The door behind the counter swings open, and Lance watches as Keith says goodbye to Allura for the night. He’s wearing Lance’s jacket again, as he has every day for the last couple of weeks. It’s routine now. The jacket smells like bacon and fresh bread when Keith presses himself against Lance’s back, for their frequent bike rides. Every trace of Lance seems to have disappeared from it, with how much Keith has worn it around, but the sight of it still jams his heart. It still stops time for a flicker of a moment, as he’s forced to remind himself that this is real. It isn’t a dream. That night really did happen.

And in this very true reality, he’s worn Keith’s leather jacket to the Deli every single day, as well.

It doesn’t smell like leather as much anymore, either. The traces of cologne and hairspray have diminished to mere ghosts of his own memory. And he wonders if maybe this is some kind of metaphor, some kind of universal sign.

Of the two of them finally coming together, comfortably. Of every romantic, unrealistic idealization that he could have had about relationships fading away into a comfortable, happy reality.

“Are you burning holes again?” Keith’s voice, and that familiar joke, don’t surprise him quite as much anymore. But they divert his attention from his own wandering thoughts regardless, as he smiles up at a Keith who smiles back tiredly. “Do you need to stop anywhere before we leave?”

Lance shakes his head.

“I cleared my schedule,” he says, rising from his seat before pushing it underneath the table again, “No business meetings tonight. No dinner parties. Just escorting my lovely maiden home.”

Keith furrows his brows, his smile spreading out sardonically as he pushes a small snort of a laugh through his lips. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets, but he doesn’t object when Lance loops an arm around his elbow, linking them together as they leave the store.

“Have a nice,  _ safe _ , evening!” Allura’s voice calls out, just as the bells jingle overhead. Keith blanches at the weird emphasis that she’s put on the word “safe”, but neither of them mention it.

It’s chilly enough outside that, within minutes, Lance can’t tell if Keith is still flustered about it, or if the cold has sprung more color to his skin.

He resists the urge to kiss the little splash of pink over the tip of Keith’s nose. It’s been cute to him since the very first day that he saw Keith like this. And he can’t really explain it—why some things are so adorable, even if they’re normal. Even though every other person in the world would have a pink nose in the cold, somehow, Keith’s is the best one.

And it’s special to him, in ways that he can’t explain. It feels, to Lance, as though it’s just another small part in the long list of reasons why it’s been so hard not to grab Keith by the shoulders and blurt out his undying love.

It’s starting to become a problem.

Every night when he drops Keith off at his door, he lingers for far too long. He stumbles over that confession, unsure of his timing, unsure of how he would say it, and why he would say it so soon.

And Keith sends him a peculiar look each time, as though somehow, he knows exactly what’s swirling around in Lance’s head, but he can’t be bothered or doesn’t have any idea how to help him out.

After their first date, Lance had told him,  _ “I lo—liked, uh. I liked hanging out with you tonight.” _

Last weekend, while they shared milkshakes at a small diner just down the street from the movie theater, where they’d watched a new action flick that Keith had been curious about, Lance had told him, _ “I lo—love… chocolate chip… milkshakes, I mean. We picked a really good flavor.” _

Each time, Keith has raised a brow at him, pausing for a long moment. And he’s wondered if he’s been caught, and when Keith will finally get tired of humoring him and just call his bluff.

But each time, Keith turns his gaze away, a small splash of color rising to his cheeks before he plays along with whatever cover-up Lance has managed to craft at the last second.

_ “Yeah,” _ he’d said during their milkshake date,  _ “I love chocolate chip too.” _

It’s been growing harder and harder not to make more out of this than he needs to. He’d rather not have another “extra cheese” level of disillusioning conversation with Keith, if he can help it. Especially if it involves Keith explaining to him,  _ “Why would I say that I loved chocolate chip if I meant that I loved you? Why wouldn’t I just say what I meant?” _

He shakes his head, dragging in a deep breath and willing his shaking hands to calm down. If he thinks too hard about all of this, he knows that it will only make it harder not to say it again.

And he doesn’t want that. He wants to do something special. Keith deserves it. He deserves to be told that he’s loved when he isn’t obviously exhausted, and when he’s not standing in front of his job, in a uniform shirt that doesn’t fit him, with hair that’s still shaped like the visor that he just took off before he clocked out.

Keith doesn’t say anything as Lance moves forward to unlock his bike from the rack. He wraps his arms around himself, stepping back to give Lance some space to work. He’s bouncing from the pads of his feet to the balls of his heels, craning his neck to watch the cars moving about in the street, and the pedestrians making slow journeys from shops, to restaurants, to cabs waiting for them around the corner.

“Oh, yeah, uh.” Lance doesn’t look up from his lock as he speaks, but he turns his head slightly, in hopes that Keith might still be able to hear him over the noise around them, “My friends want to meet you this weekend. Do you think maybe we could meet up with them at like, 2pm on Saturday—get some smoothies, maybe see a movie?”

He makes an executive decision not to mention the disgusting little slime balls or the cheesy 1970s-style corn syrup blood. He’ll ease Keith into this. He doesn’t want to scare him with the gritty details all at once. Especially when he’s obviously eager to go home and get some sleep. He’s not in the right frame of mind to discover what an ordeal Saturday is going to be. It’s better, Lance thinks, if Keith can rest easy, thinking that his friends are cool like all of those people that Shiro invites to his parties.

Keith stiffens immediately. He can sense it more than he can see it, but he knows how Keith is. And he knows that it might have been a dirty trick—convincing Pidge and Hunk that Keith had wanted to meet them, then convincing Keith of the same thing. But it’s important, and it might be easier this way. To remove himself from the equation. To make everyone involved believe that they’ll be liked immediately, so they’ll let their guards down and be more open to having fun.

It’s not a particularly well thought out plan, but he’s never been very good at planning.

He’d like to think, at the very least, that there’s an incredibly low chance of it completely blowing up in his face.

“Y—yeah, I guess… that’s fine. I’m off, so… if they really wanna meet me…”

Keith sounds unsure. Lance can see him moving around again, just out of the corner of his eye—tipping forward and back a little bit slower and more stiffly. Wrapping his arms tighter around himself, as though suddenly the temperature has dropped another ten degrees colder, just after Lance’s suggestion.

The key clicks in the lock. Lance breathes out in relief, reminding himself to save a little bit of money from his next paycheck to buy a new one that he won’t have to spend so much time messing with. When it starts snowing, he knows that it will be even more miserable standing outside, struggling just to remove his bike from the rack.

He rises to his feet, pocketing the lock and the key before swiveling around and placing both hands on either of Keith’s shoulders. Keith’s eyelids drop for a fraction of a second, as though he’s expecting to be kissed. Lance, again, is forced to compose himself for an extra, awkward few silent seconds as he struggles not to belt out, _ “I love you so much! You’re the cutest person I’ve ever laid eyes on!” _

“It’ll be fine!” He says instead, shaky enough that Keith shirks away, his face screwing up in his nervousness and mistrust. “They’re gonna love you, just like I—really, really… like you. I… I promise, okay? They’re not mean or anything. Hunk is a huge softie, and underneath that  _ ‘snotty nerdgirl’ _ facade, Pidge really does have a heart of gold.”

Keith offers him a small laugh, shrugging off his hands and stepping forward to pull Lance’s bike off of the rack. He steadies it between them, and he doesn’t speak up until Lance is swinging his leg over the side of it and situating himself on the very edge of the seat.

“You’re talking about them like they’re TV show characters that you’re pitching or something. When has anyone ever used the term _ ‘a heart of gold’ _ when they weren’t talking about like, a bad boy cop or a really smart dog or something?”

“I’m just saying, okay!” Lance forces down his defensiveness as Keith slides in behind him. He’s gotten used to the sensation of those arms around him, to some degree, but it’s never stopped feeling good. And it never fails to make his heart skip a few sputtered beats, before he can regain his bearings enough to actually start pedaling. “They’re nice people! It feels kinda weird to say it, because I’ve known them literally my entire life, but… they’re really nice. They’ve stuck with me through a lot, and… They were there for me, even when I was just, you know… ranting about how cute you were in our groupchat, and completely ignoring everything that was going on in their lives.”

He can feel Keith nod against his back. He feels so warm now, wrapped in the furnace of Keith’s unnatural body heat. In a blanket of love, he thinks, before he shoves that thought so far into the back of his brain that he hopefully never thinks it ever again.

He pushes off from the ground, wobbling a bit before steadying himself. Keith holds him tighter, and his chin jabs uncomfortably into Lance’s spine for a brief moment, before he turns his head to the side to watch the road passing by.

“I would like to meet them,” Keith says softly, muffled, but just loud enough for Lance to hear, “I guess it would be interesting to see if you can make that Pidge girl laugh hard enough that she squirts smoothie out of her nose.”

Lance barks a laugh, coasting down the sidewalk and slowing down as they near the redlit crosswalk. He places his feet firmly on the ground, reaching forward to press the button. And he sits in silence with Keith, for a moment. He breathes in the crisp air, inhales the mingled scents of the many businesses around him—the heavy salt of the ramen noodle place, the earthiness of the vegan coffee shop just three storefronts away. The balmy perfume of a beauty store across the street, and many other smells, all tangled together, in a thick cloud hanging over this place, in the blinding orange cast of the sun setting beyond the tops of the buildings.

Keith feels warm against him. He always does. He smells like freshly baked bread and expensive cologne. His hair tickles the back of Lance’s neck, just like it did the first night that he clung to Lance, on the back of his bike. Just like it has every single time since then.

“I want to meet your parents too,” Lance says quietly, just as the crosswalk light flickers from red, to flashing yellow, to solid green, “I think… they kinda brought us together, you know? They moved you here, and we met, so…”

Whatever indecipherable noise that Keith makes against his back is too muffled for him to make it out. It’s nothing but a gentle vibration against the leather of his jacket.

“That’s like me saying that I want to meet your parents because they had you, so they were somehow responsible for us getting together.”

Lance begins pedaling again, and he knows that Keith can’t see the color that rises to his cheeks. He wonders if maybe that was the wrong thing to say, but before he can delve into too much self-deprecation or overthinking, Keith cuts off that train of thought.

“But I guess… I do wanna meet them, so… if you want, I’ll talk to my parents about inviting you to dinner or something. Shiro’s dad is gone on business a lot, so it might take awhile before we’re all in one place.”

It’s a small promise, but the words still thrum under Lance’s skin. They still energize him enough that he makes it back to Keith’s house in record time—riding so quickly and weightlessly that he feels as though he’s floating just above the ground.

Time is moving them forward. The days unfold in front of them—the days into the weeks that they’ve been together. The hours that they spend on Keith’s lunch break, the minutes that they find throughout the day to send random texts or selfies. All of the seconds that Lance spends daydreaming about Keith piling up until he can’t even bring himself to be worried about midterms, or gross tapioca balls, or cheesy slashers that he always falls asleep watching right before the end.

Every new step, and every turn of his pedal propelling him further down the sidewalk. Every deep breath, and every thump of Keith’s heart against his back.

They’re all good memories, pieced together in his head.

They’re all precious moments that wrap around him so tightly that he can’t imagine living another bad day, for the rest of his life.

From now on, it’s himself and Keith—their families, and found families. Their friends and their busy schedules.

Their beautiful, simple love story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Happy Friday! I just got back from my trip at around midnight last night, so I’m still a little discombobulated. Hopefully the five-hour train ride equivalent of jetlag will wear off by the end of today. 
> 
> Anyway, this week’s cheese is the favorite of **Grindall** and **sand**! Thank you guys for submitting your favorites, and I hope you enjoyed your parmesan! 
> 
> Until next week, thank you so much for reading!


	18. Provel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's Specials: Big news, and the return of beef.

“Lance, it’s nice to see you again. Keith’s still getting ready, so why don’t you come watch TV while you wait?”

Lance has been having recurring nightmares, and they always start the same.

Every time that he comes to the Shirogane household to pick up Keith for their dates, for whatever reason, Keith’s running late. Lance knocks on the door, just as he always does. He listens to the sound of the television playing softly through the windows. And every single miserable time, Shiro’s there to answer the door.

With that big, welcoming smile. With that smooth, perfect, blameless voice. He doesn’t bring up the fact that Lance never unblocked him on Facebook. He never accuses Lance of getting too handsy during his and Keith’s date a few weeks ago.

He never asks, _“Isn’t all of this moving a little quickly?”_

But even still, there’s a very small difference between dreams and nightmares. The threshold that stands between a pleasant night’s sleep and a horrible, gut-wrenching, cold sweat-inducing experience is dreadfully thin. And Shiro is a strong guy. He’s bulky enough that Lance can imagine that he could lift at least two Deli tables with one hand, effortlessly.

It’s not unrealistic to think that Shiro could tear through that paper-thin border between a dream and a nightmare. That somehow, he could be calm and soft,  _sweet,_  even. He could be so much friendlier than any older brother in any movie that Lance has ever seen—Hell, he’s even nicer than Lance’s own older brother, at times.

But Lance just doesn’t know what to say to him. And he’s terrified of putting his foot in his mouth. Of saying the wrong thing, and ruining the small amount of camaraderie that he has with Shiro, so far, just by proving himself to be just as useless in social situations as he’s always suspected that he is.

The dream carries on throughout the twenty minutes or so that he waits for Keith to finish getting ready. He listens to the hairdryer blaring upstairs, the stomps of Keith’s hurried footsteps against the hardwood. He watches the soccer game on TV, only half-listens to the small talk that Shiro is attempting to make with him.

And every time that he glances at the clock, less than a minute has past. No matter how many hours that he feels as though he’s memorized the fancy, sporty brand written across the toes of Shiro’s socks, or how even a loose-fitting lounge-shirt grips the deep indentations of Shiro’s muscles like saran wrap struggling to stretch itself around a ham. No matter how much of Shiro he takes in, stares at for what feels like an eternity, no time passes. They’re still sitting together, waiting.

He’s still hesitating just on the threshold of saying something horrible, and wondering if maybe that one big mistake might finally move the world forward.

The dream doesn’t usually end abruptly, or dramatically. At no point does Keith ever finish getting ready, nor does Shiro finally stand up and flip a table—or start yelling, or accusing Lance of some cardinal dating sin that he’s committed against his treasured younger brother.

At no point do things go south, but it’s terribly, terribly awkward.

And usually, right before Lance fades into barely-rested awareness, Shiro turns to him with that same gentle smile. His fingers play against the buttons on the remote. His team wins their soccer game on the television, and the minute hand on the grandfather clock is trembling just before it clicks forward to the next number.

Shiro says to him then, all sugar, all good intentions, _“So, when are you finally going to tell Keith that you’re in love with him?”_

At which point, he finally jolts awake. And every single agonizing night, he wonders why he can’t even be free of these intrusive thoughts in his dreams.

Unfortunately, the scenario playing out in front of him right now isn’t another nightmare. He’s pinched himself discreetly nearly a dozen times to be sure.

Shiro isn’t asking him any prying questions— _yet_ , he thinks solemnly, as dread bubbles up in his chest—and it seems as though the clock next to the television is working just fine. Shiro isn’t watching sports either, when he leads Lance into the living room and ushers for him to take a seat on the couch. It’s some kind of daytime television instead, a talk show with a host who has an unwavering, plastic smile. The volume is turned down low, but he can see the woman motioning to a bundle of kale on a wide table in front of her, waving her hands around in the air as she speaks.

Shiro lets out a soft laugh as he follows Lance’s eyes to the screen. He sits down silently, and Lance follows, after only a moment’s hesitation.

“That’s a lot of kale,” he says, and he doesn’t act as though it’s weird or rude when Lance only shrugs nervously in response.

Lance wishes more than anything that he could warn Shiro about his dreams. That maybe he could tell him,  _“If I say anything weird today or seem extra defensive, it’s only because I’m intimidated by you to such a ridiculous level that even my subconscious won’t let me sleep without stressing over it.”_

He isn’t even sure how Shiro would react if he really did say something like that—how  _anyone_  would. Keith had already laughed at him when he’d admitted it, that even the thought of talking to Shiro made him feel like throwing up.

Keith hadn’t understood it. He’d said that Shiro wouldn’t be mean—that at first, sure, there was a time when he’d thought that the nice guy act was really only an act as well. That Shiro would reveal his true colors, and he’d be cruel. He’d be a bully like all of the older brothers in the few movies that he’d watched growing up. He’d be a good reason for Keith to hate his new home, and Keith had grown frustrated when Shiro seemed so adamant to keep pretending.

But over the two years that they’ve grown closer, he’d claimed that Shiro hadn’t had a single bad day. He’d never had a moment of weakness and he’d never lashed out unfairly.

 _“Some people are just… good,”_ Keith had told him,  _“They’re just nice, even when they don’t need to be. And that’s how Shiro is. He’s just a nice person.”_

Lance hadn’t known how to explain to Keith that this was exactly why Shiro terrified him.

He’s always thought, if he’s good at anything, it’s pushing people to a certain extent, in which even the kindest human beings might want to wring his neck.

And no matter how smoothly his relationship seems to be going with Keith so far, he’s not sure if Keith would ever want to see him again if he were apparently the first guy in the history of forever that Takashi Shirogane tried to duke it out with.

“I wanted to talk to you about something, actually,” Shiro says suddenly—jarring Lance out of his thoughts so quickly and obviously that his quick jump into a straighter sitting position surprises both of them, “Uh, it’s… Keith’s birthday on the 23rd. I’m sure he’s mentioned it already, but—”

“—Keith’s birthday?! It’s  _this month_ ?”

Despite Lance’s nagging thoughts and countless nightmares cautioning him against acting like an idiot in front of Shiro, his surprise is enough to pull him up from the couch and onto his feet. He’s holding his fists in front of him, balled tight and shaking as Shiro jerks backwards, looking at him with wide eyes.

It’s strange, seeing Shiro so shaken, but he’s so startled by this information that he can’t bring himself to feel bad about it. Keith hasn’t been acting strangely at all. He hasn’t acted as though he’s keeping secrets, or as though he might want to admit something. Lance quickly combs through his memories of their last few conversations, struggling desperately to find any clues that he might have ignored, that might lead him to the conclusion that he just wasn’t paying close enough attention.

“So… he didn’t tell you?”

Lance can barely hear the sound of Shiro’s voice. He barely registers the hum of the hair dryer blowing upstairs, or the quiet clicking of the grandfather clock across the room. On the television, the host is shoving large handfuls of kale into a blender, and motioning widely as she reaches down to blend it.

He forces his gaze back to Shiro’s face—who even still, through all of Lance’s mortification, seems as though he’d be better suited for smiling next to that woman on the TV, than sitting casually across from him, one leg tucked under the other, one meaty arm propped under his head against the armrest.

“He didn’t tell me anything!” Lance throws his hands into the air before tucking them under his armpits, pacing around in small circles. “Did he think I’d go overboard? Did he think I’d make a big deal out of it? Or, maybe he forgot. Shiro, is Keith the kind of person to forget—because I wouldn’t have forgotten if he’d told me, I swear it! I would have at least written it down somewhere, or put in in my phone, or—”

Shiro puts his hands up defensively, but he doesn’t move forward from the couch. There’s laughter in his eyes, in the creased corners of his smile.

“It’s okay, Lance. Keith’s a little… finicky about these things. If he didn’t tell you, he was probably embarrassed. Sometimes he gets this idea in his head that telling people about special events or accomplishments is going to make them feel obligated to do something for him. But that’s why I thought I’d ask, just in case, you know… he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

His words make Lance feel a lot better, even though it’s hard to admit. And they ground him enough to make him realize that he’s been ranting and raving and acting completely erratic in front of Takashi Shirogane, who he’s been making a very clear point of not seeming like he’s a total train wreck in front of, all this time.

Slowly, he makes his way back over to the couch. And he makes a point of sitting down as gently as possible, and making himself so small on the corner of it that he almost reminds himself of Keith sitting wrapped up on the curb in front of the convenience store.

“It’s already the 8th,” he says meekly, smoothing out his pants on the tops of his thighs, if only to busy himself so he doesn’t have to look directly at Shiro, “So his birthday is only, like… two weeks away.”

He almost expects a sarcastic, _“Very good, Lance. You can do big people math!”_ and maybe a pat on the head, or a lollipop that Shiro keeps stored in his expensive track short pockets for just this sort of occasion. But Shiro isn’t like that, he knows. He only settles back more comfortably into the couch, rearranging his legs so the opposite ankle is propped up on his knee, and resting his arms behind his head.

“It is,” he says, after a moment passes, “My parents are both going to be home for it, so we’re going to have a family dinner. And I think Keith would be really happy if you were there too.”

Lance chokes audibly, on the spit in his throat and all of the words that try to leave him at once. He isn’t entirely sure why Shiro’s invitation catches him by surprise, because when he really thinks about it, it was perfectly obvious where that natural flow of conversation was going to lead.

And it’s not even like Keith hadn’t talked about introducing him to his parents, but…

He isn’t sure if he’s ready. And he isn’t sure if turning down Shiro’s offer would make him look like a monster or not.

So instead, he nods, just as dumb and wordless as he always is. And he squawks out a pathetic excuse for an affirmation just as he hears Keith’s door creaking open upstairs.

He can hear the boots tapping against the floor, and the photographs clicking against the wall as Keith runs his fingers over them. It’s the same scene that he’s lived through dozens of times now. He wonders if eventually, he’ll need to have a pleading conversation with Keith—in which he begs him to start getting ready earlier in the day, if only so Lance won’t ever be stuck down here having an awkward conversation with his brother ever again.

“Sorry it took so long.” Keith’s voice is low, breathless, as though he’s been rushing around. “I couldn’t find my… socks.”

Shiro’s laughter is a rumble of a vibration that shakes Lance through the couch.

“We heard the hair dryer, Keith. You can just admit that you were trying to get your hair to look perfect again.”

They’re out of the house in a blur, after that. Keith’s goodbye to Shiro sounds more like he’s cussing him out than actual loving dialogue between family. Lance doesn’t mention it, because Keith’s holding his hand again, dragging him down the steps onto the porch, towards his bike sitting in the middle of the driveway.

He wonders, idly, what he’ll do someday if one of the Shirogane parents comes home and hits it. What he’ll do if they storm in angrily, demanding to know where the horrible little peasant is who parked his dinged up, garbage bike in the way and dented up one of their spotless, expensive sports cars.

He regrets that train of thought immediately. He can’t imagine that the sorts of people who Keith talks about so fondly could be capable of such cruelty, no matter how expensive their vehicles might be. And even still, if they’re as rich as his imagination makes them out to be, a little dent or scratch would seem as though it costed pennies to smooth out, in comparison to the weeks that he’d need to forego lunch in order to buy himself a new bike.

“Are you okay?” Keith asks him, turning around to eye him up and down, before raising a hand and placing it against his forehead, “You look pale. And you’re staring at your bike like you’re gonna… kick it or something.”

He shakes his head, waving his arms in front of him as he goes through just about every excuse that he can think of. Keith removes his hand from his forehead, placing it against his own with a familiar, pensive frown.

He looks gorgeous today, just as he always does. And Shiro was right, even if he was joking: Keith’s hair looks absolutely perfect. He can’t even be mad at the guy for taking so long to get ready when he cleans up so nicely.

Lance himself decided to dress more casually. He’s in a hoodie and his old, ripped jeans. With his worn out, but still immensely comfortable, sneakers. His hair is still slightly damp from his shower. He’d put just the slightest bit of product into it, but Hunk had cautioned him against going overboard.

_“Pidge will call you out if you dress up too nice, dude. You know she will.”_

He wonders if Keith notices how much better he looked on their last few dates. If he’s wondering now if Lance gave up so early, or if maybe he prefers the more laid back look.

He isn’t sure what Keith likes seeing him in, or if maybe Keith doesn’t pay attention to that sort of thing at all. If maybe he’s looking at Lance now, not quite sure what’s different, but he can’t put his finger on it. Lance almost tells him, _“I couldn’t dress up because my friends would tease me,”_  but he holds his tongue.

They’re still in a strange place, himself and Keith. It’s comfortable, and he isn’t as nervous as he used to be, but from time to time, he finds himself struggling not to say all of the terrible things that he’s thinking about Keith, if only so he won’t embarrass himself.

Keith is wearing Lance’s jacket again, with a regular black ensemble that might be the same clothes that he wore during Shiro’s party. He looks as though he put a lot of effort into this getup, as simple as it is, and when Lance comes close enough, he realizes that he even washed the jacket. It smells like laundry detergent in place of bread. And it’s warm enough when he reaches out and touches it that he can tell that it’s fresh out of the dryer.

But then he needs to explain to Keith why he reached over and touched his arm.

And his mind blanks. The two of them stare at each other—Keith appearing more concerned and slightly disgruntled by the second—as Lance’s horror grows larger and larger inside of him.

“Let’s… let’s go.”

It’s the only thing Lance can think to say right now.

If Keith is questioning his odd behavior, he doesn’t mention it.

But today is a very big day for both of them, and he feels as though he has every reason to be freaking out. Frankly, he’s surprised that Keith isn’t acting more outlandish, but true to character, he’s as cool as he always seems to be.

Lance knows better than to imagine that there isn’t a storm of emotions brewing inside of his head, but he’s always been better at containing them. For awhile, at least, he can put on that facade of someone who doesn’t care.

Until something tips him off kilter, and…

_He explodes._

Lance gulps, just as he’s situating himself on his bike.

“Lance, seriously, if you’re going to throw up, we can do this another time.”

Keith doesn’t know how much he’s really not helping right now. He doesn’t realize that Lance has just had another horrifying epiphany—that Keith has a lot of very tender buttons. And Pidge has eager little fingers. She likes to mess with people. She likes to push them until she can see how much they’ll take.

He can imagine Keith now, flipping the table at the BOBA place. Screaming and raving and ripping twelve stacked menus in half in his bare hands. Hunk would be crying. Everything would go up in flames. It would be a nightmare, a calamity.

Because Pidge can’t keep her mouth shut. Because she doesn’t know when to quit.

“I—I’m… I’m fine. I’m just… nervous. You need to know, Keith, my friends—”

“I know I can be a lot to handle.” Keith cuts him off, mounting the bike behind him and wrapping his arms dutifully around his waist. “But I can take it, I promise. You don’t have to worry about me.”

It sounds convincing enough. It sounds like Keith is trying his hardest to sound genuine, while masking the obvious hurt that he’s feeling, by the mere idea that Lance wouldn’t trust him to be cordial in such a delicate social situation.

“It’s not that,” he says slowly, exhaling hard through his nose and kicking up the stand on his bike, one foot firm against the ground to hold them steady, “I don’t think they’ll be rude. They’ll be nice, and they’ll like you. You’ll like them. But… I just get nervous, you know? I always expect for the worst thing to happen, and I should know better by now than to… expect for you not to be you. Like, a nice person. Or… someone who’s willing to spend your weekend meeting my friends. I know you’ll be fine, but… you know, in my head, sometimes I get carried away thinking about everything that could go wrong.”

Keith presses firmer against him, mumbling a laugh against his back.

“I was up all night worrying about it too. I kept thinking, you know… I’m gonna tell them that I’ve never seen Star Trek and they’re gonna flip a table or something. Or I won’t like those tapioca balls and they’re gonna tell you to break up with me.”

It’s Lance’s turn to laugh, and he does so with so much relief that he suddenly feels lightheaded. He grips the handlebars a little firmer, pushing off against the ground and coasting down the driveway.

“I don’t like the tapioca either, so I’ll defend your honor,” he says, “Pidge always yells when we watch Star Trek because she says that they get the science wrong. As long as you don’t dis Marie Curie or porchetta, I think you’ll be fine.”

Keith is muttering about what in the world either of those things could be, as Lance begins the slow journey through his neighborhood. The trees are beginning to lose the lush, green summer hues, blending into a myriad of oranges and reds, shuffling in the chilly breeze as they coast by.

The sun sits high in the clear, washed out blue of the sky. It’s cloudless, but bleak. It seems as though it might rain later in the day. He imagines running through the spray of it with Keith and his friends. Of holding their jackets over their heads as makeshift umbrellas as they dash from the bubble tea shop to the movie theater, just a few blocks away.

He imagines that maybe everything will be fine, that they’ll have fun. That Pidge will keep her condescending comments to herself, and Hunk won’t force the tapioca balls on Keith if he doesn’t like them. That maybe they can be normal, happy.

That Keith can find himself melding into their regular day-to-day, as a more permanent fixture in all three of their lives.

It seems like a lot to hope for, as no saint or no martyr. But he thinks that maybe, it’s worth a shot anyway.

His smile grows only wider as he rides out of the mouth of the neighborhood into the empty streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I'm really, really sorry about this chapter being late! If we're being totally honest here, I've been sort of a... big ball of nerves lately, and I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping. As it is, I think... as much as it pains me to do it, I need to take a small break next Friday. So, we'll be back on the 16th! But I need a little bit of time to get my personal business in order, so I can give this story the respect and attention that it deserves. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you guys so much for reading! It really means so much to me! 
> 
> See you again on the 16th!


	19. Muenster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: Introductions, aliens, and a mid-afternoon storm.

Pidge and Hunk and sitting across from each other in the third booth from the door when Lance finally leads Keith into the Bubble Tea restaurant. Hunk smiles at him, as Pidge cranes her neck and throws a wave behind her. It seems, to Lance, that they’re already invested in a very heated discussion when he makes his way down the aisle and scoots in next to Pidge.

He motions for Keith to take a seat next from Hunk, across from himself—already feeling a little disappointed that the two of them won’t be able to huddle up, but putting on a brave face for Keith’s sake anyway.

Keith is slow, as he takes his seat. His fingertips ghost against the surface of the table. He visibly swallows, lowering his brows and knitting them close together before letting out a tentative breath.

“I’m Keith,” he says quietly, awkwardly, as though he’s regretting the words as they leave his lips, “I’ve heard a lot about both of you.”

Pidge immediately turns to send Lance a smug smile, tipping her head to the side and raising a brow.

“Have you now,” she says, deadpan, before finally breaking her gaze away from Lance and snapping it over to Keith, “all bad things, I’m sure.”

Keith stands a little bit straighter, and the inklings of a smile on his lips pull tight into a frown. He’s flicking his eyes from somewhere that Lance thinks might not quite be Pidge’s face, to Hunk, then to Lance himself. With another heavy swallow, he finally manages to drag himself into his seat. Hunk’s grin widens, and he shuffles to the side a little, to give Keith more room.

“I’m sure you can tell that I’m Hunk,” he says, and Lance isn’t sure why he doesn’t extend a hand to Keith, but he keeps both tucked in his lap, “We’ve heard a lot about you too. All good things, I promise.”

Keith nods—once, slowly. He sends a few small glances in Lance’s direction.

“I can’t imagine,” Keith says. But then his face is lighting up, burning darker pink as he drags his gaze away from the table towards the rest of the restaurant surrounding them.

He takes a long moment to focus on the growing group of people queued up at the counter, the bubbly letters of the menu, and the round-bulbed lamps hanging above every booth and table. Then quietly, meekly, he grits out, “—that he’d say anything mean, I mean. Um… it doesn’t seem like he ever says anything mean about anyone.”

Pidge snorts a laugh, quieting herself at record speed when Lance turns a glare in her direction. Hunk’s smile creases at the edges, as though he might laugh too, but miraculously, he keeps it in. The four of them sit in awkward silence for a moment, and Keith wraps his arms around himself, tucked away so small and contained that he’s only taking up a quarter of the booth that’s been allotted to him. And Pidge and Hunk seem to be speaking their own silent language through various, small giggles and stares that last a little bit too long for Lance’s comfort—until he gets sick of all of it and pushes himself up from his seat.

“Well, I’m gonna order one of these gross drinks,” he says, shuffling out onto the floor, “who wants to come with me?”

He isn’t particularly surprised that Keith practically throws himself out of the booth in his eagerness to extract himself from the situation.

And it isn’t until they’re both standing at the end of the line that Keith finally speaks up again.

“They seem nice. I mean, pretty much… exactly how I would have expected for them to be.”

Lance perks up slightly at the sound of that—the quivering of Keith’s voice, the strange assertion that he’s made from maybe the most uncomfortable encounter that Lance has witnessed since the last time that he talked to Shiro. His cheeks are still flushed, and his eyes are trained on the tiles of the floor under his feet. He’s reaching out idly, as though he isn’t even thinking about it at all, and lacing his fingers together with Lance’s.

His hands are shaking, ever so slightly. And finally, he raises his eyes to meet Lance’s.

“I’m so nervous right now that I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

Outside, it seems as though the clouds have finally grown too tired to keep the rain at bay. It starts as a slow pattering against the windows, growing gradually stronger and stronger, until the spray of it is so loud that it nearly drowns out the music around them. Lance listens to the beating of it against the glass, curls his fingers around Keith’s and smiles as his eyes drag along the menu. Hunk had asked for mango, Pidge, raspberry. Both of them had requested extra tapioca as some sort of personal attack on his superior tastes, he’s sure. And Keith is now so focused on the letters above them that it seems as though he hadn’t just expressed his fears at all, just moments ago.

“I think you’re doing great,” Lance says anyway, even if Keith seems as though he isn’t listening close enough to hear him, “They seem like they like you, but… I know it’s kind of scary at first. Just like when I met Shiro and Allura for the first time. I mean, kind of like  _ every time _ that I see Shiro and Allura, like,  _ all the time _ , but… you know what I mean.”

This draws a laugh out of Keith, at least, who tightens his grip on Lance’s hand. His eyes don’t leave the menu, but his grin pulls broader across his lips, until it’s wide enough that Lance can make out the small divots of dimples in his cheeks.

“I don’t understand why you’re so afraid of them,” Keith says softly, flicking his gaze momentarily to the cashier behind the counter, sliding a card through the slot on the register, “They’re not going to be mean to you. They know how much I like you.”

Lance drags in a deep breath, shirking off all of the offense that he takes to that before he allows himself to speak again. He wants to shake Keith, to tell him how terrifying it is to talk to someone who seems so undeniably perfect, but he isn’t sure if that would even help. He doesn’t know if Keith could ever see Shiro how  _ he _ sees Shiro, after spending so many years sharing a bathroom, or watching Shiro apparently cry at the end of cartoon movies. He imagines that the two of them will never quite see eye to eye about any of this, but even still…

“Why are you so afraid of Hunk and Pidge then? I mean, they know that I love you too.”

The look that Keith gives him is so immediate and unexpectedly hot that he nearly topples over. He’s met with a wave of vertigo, a sudden lurch in his belly when his words finally sink in, and he’s in such a hurry to correct himself and remedy this horrible situation that he tears his hand out of Keith’s before slapping it over his mouth.

He’s practically yelling through his fingers now, his face so warm that he wonders if it’ll melt off.

“I—I mean, I love hanging out with you! And they’re gonna love hanging out with you too, right? I mean, we all have so much in common, and I think, if I like being around you, since we’re all so similar, they’re gonna love it too, _ right _ ?!”

He loses count of how many times he says “love” in that rant, but every single instance of it feels like a white-hot nail being driven deeper and deeper into his chest. Keith’s expression is unreadable, save for the small upturning of the corners of his lips.

And this moment, of the two of them standing together, of the people ahead of them in line turning to send them dirty looks as Lance continues to flounder—it feels as though it lasts an entire three lifetimes.

Until Keith turns back to the menu with a small huff, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I love hanging out with you too,” he says flatly, “so yeah, I guess it’ll be fine.”

Lance makes an executive decision not to mention the color painting Keith’s cheeks. Because he feels, right now, as though he has very little room to talk.

But he makes a note to talk to Hunk about all of this later—to figure out if there really is something wrong with him, or if there’s anything that he can do to fix it. It’s far too early to be feeling this way already, and even if it wasn’t, he doesn’t want his first _ “I love you” _ to come out while he’s still waiting in a ridiculously slow line for drinks that he doesn’t even like. He doesn’t want to do it in public at all, if he can help it. He knows that Keith is more private, that he prefers the intimacy of quiet. That, even now, he’d probably rather be tucked away in a place far less packed, but he was willing to do anything that they suggested in fear of making too many waves too soon.

He just doesn’t want to start off on the wrong foot so early in their relationship, or put Keith in any needlessly awkward situations. And he feels, for what feels like the billion time since he met Keith, that his big, stupid mouth is going to cause him more problems than he already has right now.

He just needs to play it cool. He needs to stop thinking about how nice Keith’s hair looks, and how nice it still might look when it’s plastered over his face in the rain. He needs to stop wondering if they’ll press together as they make a run for the movie theater, if Keith will take off his jacket and hold it over their heads like a makeshift umbrella.

And he needs to stop wondering if Keith will find comfort in the blanket of dark during the movie, if they’ll wind their fingers together, push down the shared armrest and lean in close. If maybe Keith will kiss him then, like he did in front of the Chinese restaurant—if they’ll ignore the dramatic screams and the cheesy 80s blood on-screen, and instead find themselves engrossed in their own personal battle of tongues and lips.

He’s doing it again, right now, he knows. He’s writing out an entire plot to his own life in his head, and he can’t stop thinking about how wonderful it would be to hear Keith say, “I love you too” in the soft light of the projection on the screen, in the silence of the people tucked around them, over the salty, buttery scent of the popcorn, with the taste of candy and soda on his lips.

With his eyes so shadowed in the black around them that they look like twin, dark pools of ocean water. As he did by the pool, the night that they first talked. Like he did as he leaned forward to kiss Lance for the very first time on their first date.

Keith is tugging him forward by the arm as the line moves, just a bit. There’s another person working behind the counter now, and it seems as though two people is just the right amount to get things moving fast enough. Lance wonders if the Deli ever gets so busy that Shiro has to come up front to help Keith. He wonders if there’s ever a time when even his parents have to put aside their busy schedules and assist them, due to holidays or summer barbecues, or some other town events that Lance doesn’t experience the brunt of as a delivery boy.

He wonders what Keith used to do after a long day at the Deli. If he’d come home and sleep, if he’d read something. If he’d take some time to browse random sites on that laptop in his bedroom, or if he’d tuck away inside of himself, compartmentalizing all of that anger, exhaustion, and frustration for another day, when he had more time to take all of it out during a karate class or yoga, or whatever else his mom signed him up for.

“What flavor are you getting?” Keith asks, sudden, but quiet enough that his voice pulls Lance away from his thoughts gently. He’s wrinkling his nose now, drawing his brows close together. “Those balls look like fish eggs. Are they slimy too?”

Lance can’t stop himself from laughing, but he does manage to stop himself from turning around and yelling back to Hunk and Pidge,  _ “See?! At least someone here has good taste!” _

They wouldn’t hear him anyway, and he’s already made too much of a scene.

“They’re slimy, yeah. And really sticky. I think they feel like snot, but I guess some people like them.”

Keith nods, but his look of disgust stays firmly in place. His fingers find Lance’s once again, now that Lance has calmed down enough to allow his hands to fall more casually at his sides. And for a moment, the two of them just talk about smoothie flavors. Keith is unsure about coffee, about lavender. Lance tells him to stick to fruit. They bicker about what lychee is—Keith, adamant that it’s also a sort of fruit, while Lance is determined that it’s a kind of dessert, until Keith finally gets so huffy about it that he pulls out his boxy, ancient relic of a phone and looks it up.

He’s right, but Lance can’t bring himself to be too upset about the loss. When they reach the counter, he orders a lychee flavored smoothie, no nasty slime balls, as an act of goodwill. The smile that Keith sends him is sardonic, at best, but he doesn’t say anything else about it.

Until they’re carrying back all four drinks, and Keith finally asks him, “Why would you order that when you didn’t even know what it was five minutes ago? What are you gonna do if you don’t like it?”

“You have to take chances when they present themselves to you, right? You never know if you’ll love something until you try it.”

It’s ridiculously smooth, but maybe a little bit too loaded in mixed company. The two of them are collectively so mortified by these words that they don’t look each other in the eye for a good ten minutes after they take a seat again.

Hunk and Pidge fill the silence with a debate about some scientific nonsense that sounds like nothing but gibberish to Lance. Pidge is talking about atoms, which sounds familiar enough, but then she’s delving into deeper territory, with terms like “quantum superposition” and “ensemble interpretation” that make him wonder if they’re even using real words, or if they’re just spouting off made up sci-fi garbage to annoy him.

It wouldn’t be the first time, really, but he’d expect more of them during their first meeting with Keith.

“I’m just saying that mainstream media oversimplifies the idea of the entire thing—they put too much emphasis on the cat itself, but they don’t really take in the idea that it doesn’t have to be a cat. It’s not even a cat! It’s a concept!”

“That’s what I was saying, Pidge! I wasn’t arguing! I mean, he’s still kind of an idiot, but I think maybe he just got the idea wrong. Regardless, he doesn’t really belong in your major if he doesn’t know something that simple…”

Hunk is swirling his straw around in his drink, purposefully positioning it over a few of the gross slime balls before he takes a sip. Lance grimaces, but decides not to mention it, lest he distract them from whatever weird thing they’re debating before Pidge can work off some steam.

“Wait, you’re talking about Schrödinger, right? The cat thing?”

Keith’s voice is startling this time, while Lance was positive that he’d at least be the buffer that he needed during these conversations. He’d always imagined that Keith was smart, but maybe not smart enough to ever make sense of Pidge and Hunk’s jargon. He’s familiar enough with the term once Keith says it, of course, but he hadn’t been able to focus long enough to even comprehend what they were talking about.

To him, most days, after a few minutes of their rambling, his brain forces itself to tune them out in favor of not short circuiting.

“Yeah,” Pidge tells him, not missing a single beat, “My online handle is a reference to it. Like Schrödinger's cat, but  _ pigeon _ , because of my nickname, Pidge. We had to do this dumb groupchat thing for my physics class and this guy was giving me a hard time about it. He kept telling me that it  _ ‘made a mockery of the whole thought experiment to change the cat out for another animal’ _ .”

Keith takes a long drink, and Lance doesn’t miss the way that he swallows a good mouthful of tapioca without batting an eye. So he’s been betrayed in more ways than one. Before he knows it, Keith will be ribbing him just as hard as Pidge and Hunk do, he’s sure.

“He probably knew,” Keith tells her, “he just wanted to get you riled up because he was mad about how clever it was.”

Which, it seems, is exactly the right thing to tell Pidge right now, because she calms down immediately. Her cheeks are lightly dusted with color, as she takes the first sip of her drink since Lance passed it to her. She doesn’t look at any of them—instead, opting to stare out of the window next to them, but Lance can tell that, for once, she isn’t sure how to respond.

Pidge’s intelligence has been a universal constant throughout his entire life, and he wonders how long it’s been since someone didn’t just expect it from her. She’s challenged, frequently, as one of the few girls in her major, but he isn’t sure how often someone takes the time to remind her how much smarter she is than everyone else. How abnormal it is, how amazing it is. How proud she should be of herself for working so hard and pursuing her passions without fear of how awful some people will choose to treat her because of it.

Their group is small and contained, and he knows that Pidge and Hunk haven’t made many friends this semester either. They’re too reliant on each other, maybe, but now…

In the face of a newcomer, he wonders if she’s flustered and thrown off—by Keith’s small, simple compliment, and his uncanny ability to always see exactly the right things in people.

“So Keith,” Hunk says, as surely his motherly instincts kick in and he realizes that this conversation won’t move forward if everyone stays silent, “What kind of stuff do you do for fun, you know—like Pidge likes science stuff, I’m into cooking and engineering, Lance likes movies… What do you do? You know, for fun.”

Keith is quiet for a moment, as he fiddles with his drink in his hands. Lance catalogs this nervous tick, after seeing it so many times, and it seems as though Hunk and Pidge are familiar enough with him from Lance’s stories that they know not to push him to hurry up too.

For a moment, he simply turns his cup around in his hands, seeming as though he’s focusing very hard on the bubbly letters of the restaurant’s logo printed on the surface. Lance wonders if Hunk, in all of his perceptiveness, picked up on how uncomfortable Keith seems to be with expressing himself, or reaching out to other people right away. He wonders if that’s why he didn’t shake his hand, when he knows that Hunk is a hugger, a toucher, and the sort of person who warms up to other people almost immediately.

He knows that both of his best friends are good people, but he can’t help but feel a swell of affection for the two of them now, growing larger in warmer in his chest as he watches the way that Keith works out all of the words that he wants to say in his head. He knows that they’re patient, and kind. He knows that they probably went into this knowing that they’d need to do everything in their power to make sure that Keith didn’t feel too out of place.

He isn’t sure what he was so worried about before. He doesn’t know why he ever doubted either of them. Or Keith, too, who seems as though he’s working so hard to be on his best behavior.

“I don’t really have a lot of free time with work,” Keith tells them slowly, carefully, “but my…  _ mom _ , she has me signed up for a bunch of classes that I take once every other week when I’m off. Right now I’m doing Hapkido, uh… Viniyoga, and… I have this painting class too, but I’m not very good at it. I guess it’s fun, but my _ mom _ is kind of… into some really weird new-age kind of stuff, so the instructor is always telling us to like, paint our feelings and stuff. Like you’re supposed to put your “soul” into the paint before you put the brush on the canvas. He’s always telling me that I was an alien in a past life so that’s why my pictures always turn out weird. But they’re just weird because I’m not good at painting.”

He seems frustrated as he’s speaking, as though the words aren’t coming out exactly how he wants them to. Lance is familiar with this voice, this stiffness and discomfort. He’s seen Keith talk like this before—when he’s retelling tales of his life before the Shiroganes, when he’s complaining about his apparent lack of drive and how exasperated he is that they aren’t more disappointed in him.

But no one seems as though they’re going to make fun of him for this, and no one laughs when he finishes talking. He looks up from his drink then, biting the inside of his cheek. Pidge is the first one to break the silence.

“So what kind of alien does he say that you were?” She asks, and while her tone is sarcastic, this doesn’t seem to bother Keith. If anything, he seems to perk up at the idea that someone else agrees that it’s a whole lot of bullshit. “I mean, were you a generic little green man, did you kidnap some cows,  _ probe _ anyone..?”

Lance blanches, wishing that he were close enough to kick her.

But Keith begins to open up, gradually. He jokes about the hippies in his various classes, how Hapkido is the only thing that he’s taken for longer than a few months, and how every other class is made up of mainly middle aged women, and they always treat him like he’s the entire class’s son.

They talk about the various things that he’s done, the people who he’s met. And he tells stories that make everyone laugh, that make him smile, that peel him apart and bare him to their group so beautifully that Lance is transfixed on his radiant smile.

Slowly, Pidge and Hunk grow comfortable enough to share their own stories. They leave the restaurant and run through the rain, tuck themselves away in the dark quiet of a nearly empty movie theater.

And Keith pushes down the armrest, they huddle close together. They kiss, just like he’d imagined that they would—warm and soft and private if only for the black around them.

It’s a nice day, and he’s sad when it ends.

But throughout the entirely of it, he still can’t stop wishing, more than anything, that he could ever be brave enough or suave enough to tell Keith just how quickly and desperately he’s fallen for him.

In time, maybe he will, but not yet.

Keith deserves something more romantic—something bigger, something personal, something that will express just how entirely Keith has brought color to the barren grays of his world and lit of the dark recesses of his bleak, depressing outlook on romance.

Someday, he’ll figure out the perfect way to say it.

Someday, he’ll conjure up an idea so beautiful that it will undo every awkward misstep that he’s taken so far.

Someday, he’ll be strong enough to say _ “I love you”  _ without taking it back, and maybe, hopefully, Keith will finally tell him, _ “I love you too.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I hope you guys had a happy Valentine’s day! Mine was a pretty lazy day of just napping with my husband, but it was nice! Rest, I think, is always the best gift that we can get anymore. 
> 
> Anyway, this week’s chapter is the favorite cheese of **anawkwardavocado**! So thank you so much for sharing that with me!  
>  Also, during my break, [hannalu-art](https://hannalu-art.tumblr.com/post/170631114212/scene-from-this-klance-fic-called-love-cheese-by) drew a beautiful piece based on the ending scene of chapter fourteen! So please go check that out!   
> And finally, I’d like to take a short moment to thank **epiproctan** for helping me through some really terrible writer’s block throughout the week. I really don’t know if I could have managed to get this chapter out without her. 
> 
> So, until next week, thank you so much for being patient with me! All of your well-wishes last week really meant so much to me! <3


	20. Edam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: Antique stores, best-laid plans, and a whole lot of 20 cent ramen noodles.

It’s October 20th, and Lance still hasn’t bought Keith’s birthday present.

After rushing out of his final class of the day, he’d texted Hunk frantically, begging him to tag along on a hurried walk-through of all of the kitschy little shops just a few blocks away from his job. He’s passed by them frequently during his routes to deliver pizzas, and he’s always wondered what might be inside of them. And he’d thought, before he’d met Keith, before he’d ever actually had a reason to venture inside of any of them, that someday, he might find the freetime just to browse.

But now, he’s depending on them. It’s been weeks since Shiro first told him about Keith’s birthday dinner, and no matter how often he’s scoured the internet, searched all of the fancy high-tech stores that he could barely afford to shop in, and peeked through the discount racks in the school store, he still has yet to find anything that he thinks might be worthy of actually gifting to Keith.

“Maybe I just don’t know him as well as I thought I did…”

Hunk had met up with him in front of the school gates, breathless and sweaty with his backpack still slung over his shoulders. Now, he’s seemed to have calmed down a bit, as they make the slow walk from campus to the knick-knack stores that Lance told him about before they left.

“Giving gifts is hard, man,” Hunk tells him, “especially the first time. It’s not your fault. But, you know… maybe you shouldn’t think about it so much. Maybe the right thing is kinda… right under your nose.”

As it is, Lance has run through just about every conversation that he’s had with Keith since he met him—painstakingly so. Borderline obsessively so. So much so that he could probably regurgitate all of Keith’s responses and stories with an accuracy that would startle even Keith himself. He’d thought about buying him a new set of socks—ones with less holes, ones that match better—but then he’d thought about how boring that might be. Keith is practical, sure, but  _ Lance _ is a romantic. And he wonders if maybe Keith would be disappointed on the principle that he’d expected more from Lance by now. That maybe, despite the nuances of his own personality, he’d take Lance’s willingness to settle on something mundane as a clear sign that their relationship was already stagnating.

“Maybe I should just record all of the trouble that you’re going through to find him something,” Hunk says, laughing, as they round the corner of the street, pausing to press the crosswalk button and waiting for traffic to clear before the light turns green, “You can just give him the tapes with whatever you decide on. You know, then he can appreciate how much you’ve been obsessing over this.”

Lance sends him a petulant look, clicking his tongue and shoving his hands in his pockets. He hadn’t had time to drop off his bag in their dorm either, and it’s already starting to feel heavy, as it tugs at his shoulders and concentrates a dull, tired ache at the base of his spine.

It’s chilly today, as the few trees planted in small patches of grass along the sidewalk wither and fade to their autumnal oranges and soft browns. The leaves break free and scatter in the streets, in the gutters, and sprinkle the world around them with flecks of varying color. His breath escapes his lips in the faintest hint of clouds. His hands feel numb from the cold, as he shoves them deeper into his pockets, rubbing his thumbs against his fingers in hopes of revitalizing some sensation.

He’s never liked autumn too much, but he enjoys every opportunity that he can get to wear the jacket that Keith gave him. He is, again today. And today, one of the girls in his glass complimented it.

He might have smiled a little bit too wide when he told her, _ “Thanks, my boyfriend gave it to me.” _

And he must have used that same dopey, lovesick voice that Pidge and Hunk are always teasing him about, because she’d giggled when he’d told her, and her cheeks had flushed pink.

And it had felt good then, to brag to another person about Keith. About the mere idea that he could date someone like Keith, and that Keith would give him gifts like this, that he could show off to the world. He’d wondered, in that moment, if this relationship would feel this good forever. If maybe Hunk and Shay are still just as happy, and the mystifying “newness” of a relationship might never completely fade away.

But even if someday it does, and dating Keith, and loving Keith, just becomes another part of his daily routine, he wants to stay with him long enough to find out. And he isn’t sure if finally feeling completely comfortable with Keith could really be so bad anyway.

The stores in question, all sitting packed together on a single block, are drawing nearer. They’re novelty antique stores, the types of places that his mom used to shop when he was younger. She used to like blowing the dust off of things, imagining what they could be if she polished them or painted them. She’d lugged home a busted up coffee table with a single, shorter leg once. And his father had sanded it down for her. They’d stained it together.

And to this day, it’s piled with mail and his nieces’ and nephews’ toys—still standing reliably in their tiny living room. He’d always admired it when he was younger. He’d always wanted to buy something with a partner someday, that he could say, eventually,  _ “We bought that together fifteen years ago!” _ like some kind of allegory to the old-age of their love.

Someday, he’ll show his grandkids his leather jacket, he’s sure. Someday, he’ll tell them, _ “Your grandpa Keith gave this to me on our very first date.” _

But he’s getting distracted again. Hunk is pushing open the front door to the nearest antique shop. He doesn’t mention how quiet Lance has suddenly become. He knows Lance well enough by now to understand that sometimes, especially when it comes to matters revolving around Keith, he can’t keep his thoughts focused long enough to get much of anything done without zoning out.

Again, Lance wonders if Hunk feels that way about Shay as well.

Or if maybe, he’s more of a realist. If maybe, Lance is the only idiot with his head constantly lost in the clouds.

The bell overhead jingles as Hunk holds open the door. Lance dips under Hunk’s extended arm, peering around the long, cluttered shelves and breathing in the stale, dusty smell that brings blurry memories of distant childhood adventures rushing back to him.

He remembers running around the shelves in a similar store when he was barely old enough to read. He remembers staring up at the cracked paint of old artwork, skimming his fingers over the colorful lettering on children’s books that he was still too young to understand. And he remembers how his mom would scoop him up and reprimand him in that soft, loving voice,  _ ”be careful! If you get lost, they’re gonna sell you to a new family that makes you eat brussels sprouts every single night for dinner!” _

The warm, comforting memories. The sorts of thoughts that make his heart ache for home.

But he needs to focus. He needs to shake away this train of thought and concentrate on finding the perfect gift for Keith.

It’s not particularly bright in here, with so many posters and thick, velvety curtains obscuring the sun through the windows, but Lance imagines that it probably adds to the whole ambiance of this place. It feels quieter, more tucked away and private. It feels as though it could very easily belong in a smaller town, like where he grew up. He breathes in deeper, as Hunk pulls the door closed.

He can’t think of a single thing that Keith might like, but maybe, hopefully, something unique enough that it could catch Keith’s attention will reveal itself among all of these shelves.

There’s an older woman snoozing behind a wide, glossy wooden counter at the farthest side of the room. There’s a magazine resting on her belly, and her head is tipped back against the plush headrest of her chair. Lance and Hunk make a point of not speaking too loud, or making too much noise. They’re careful not to rattle anything too hard as they pick up various items and take a closer look at them.

Lance browses aisles and aisles of many random odds and ends. There’s an old record player, an entire section of thick, dark curtains that Hunk says might have been used at one point as some kind of makeshift green screen. Lance isn’t entirely sure how he knows this, but he imagines that Hunk probably knows what he’s talking about anyway. And in the interest of staying on task, he decides not to debate about it.

At one of the walls, there are racks of old records, comic books, and romance novels. Lance runs his fingers over the spines, wondering if any of the romantics within these pages would be better than him at buying the perfect gift for a private guy like Keith.

Beside the records, he finds something curious. It’s a small, black orb connected to a tightly coiled cable. There are small holes punctured in the glass bulb of it, and deep inside, when he lifts it up and peers inside of it, he finds a tiny, yellowed light.

“It looks like it’s supposed to emulate a night sky,” Hunk says, “My sister used to have one of those. You plug it in, and it makes the ceiling look like it’s covered in stars.”

Across from them, hanging from the wall, there’s a retro neon sign. It reads, _ “Milkshakes: 99 cents” _ .

And it’s the same color as the light outside of the convenience store. The same hue that had played against Keith’s skin as he’d tucked around himself, when he’d lunged to his feet and yelled. Lance remembers then, peering up at the night sky, imagining that he might always be one of those black gaps between the stars.

He hadn’t known at the time that he’d end up here, searching for a birthday gift for Keith. He hadn’t realized, when he’d unloaded his baggage and taken on Keith’s own, that the two of them would ever become closer than two people who just seemed destined to keep meeting each other, again and again.

He turns the little lamp over in his hands, thinking back to that night. And he thinks about all of their other dates together—the late nights under the stars. The many small respites that they’ve found between his classes and their respective shifts. Their first kiss in the fluorescent glow in front of the Chinese restaurant. Their fingers wrapped together, Keith yelling in the street.

The first night, Keith on the back of his bike. The way that the air and the Earth itself had bent around him, as though he were the most powerful man alive. As though somehow, conquering his fears and his insecurities, and allowing himself to face Keith head-on, had melted away any doubt that he would ever have again.

He doesn’t know if those nights mean as much to Keith as they do to him. But he sets down the light, thumbs through the records. He thinks about the two of them huddled close in that coffee shop, their bickering over bubble tea flavors, Keith laughing so fearlessly and openly when Lance told him a joke that truly lit him up inside.

And he wonders where it all started—with the cheese, or with that night in front of the convenience store. Which moment he might have known for sure that Keith was the one, which moment that might have been for Keith.

Hunk finds a basket to carry all of their things tucked away at the opposite corner of the room. He’s kind enough to carry the record player when Lance wobbles precariously with it, as he pulls it from the shelf.

He doesn’t question what Lance is doing, or what sort of plan he’s put together. But he smiles like he understands it anyway, without any words, without Lance going over a plan out loud that might not sound as good audibly as it looks right now in his thoughts.

Maybe, sometimes, Hunk can be romantic. Maybe, if Shay were close enough that he could visit her in the flesh, he would consider doing silly, hopelessly corny things like this for her as well.

Lance feels too guilty to ask him this. He knows that, even if Hunk never complains about the distance, sometimes he looks lonely. Sometimes, when Lance is buzzing with the high of another successful date, he can pick apart a small spark of something akin to jealousy in Hunk’s reliable, soft smile.

But Shay comes back to their hometown during holidays, he knows this too. It won’t be long until they switch places, and Lance is the one missing Keith, and Hunk is the one hoping that Winter break never ends.

They’ve collected so many items now that they can barely carry it all. When they set them down on the counter, the lady finally snores herself awake, jolting when she spots them and apologizing profusely as she adjusts her clothing and her hair, where it’s matted itself down while she’s slept.

It’s nearly two hundred dollars for everything, and Hunk makes an audible squeak of horror when the total dings on the register. Lance convinces himself that skipping a few sodium-light meals in favor of 20 cent ramen noodles will be worth it. He promises himself that he’ll pick up an extra shift or two at Sal’s.

The cashier bags everything, but it doesn’t make it any easier to carry outside. Hunk complains somewhat, about how impossible it might be to carry all of this across town, back to their dorm, but for the most part, he seems as though he can sense Lance’s newfound good mood, and he isn’t interested in dampening it.

“You really have a whole project planned with this stuff, don’t you?”

Lance hums, but he doesn’t offer much more as far as explanations go. He’s walking with a bounce in his step, despite the weight in his arms. Even the cold outside feels warmer, the sun behind the clouds, even brighter. The leaves clogging the gutters at the edges of the street are more saturated, and the world seems friendlier, even as a few cars honk angrily in traffic.

It takes them twice as long to get back to their dorm, with how hard it is to walk quickly, and once they finally shove their way through their door, Hunk waddles over to his bed and dumps the contents of his arms on top of it. He drops his backpack to the floor next, bending backwards with hands on his hips and sighing as his spine pops.

“Man, maybe we should have stopped by a grocery store and borrowed a cart of something,” he says, blowing out a long breath and dragging a hand over his forehead, “I mean, we would have looked ridiculous, but the convenience would have been worth it.”

Lance sets down all of his things on his own bed, peeling away the bags and tossing them on the floor. He arranges everything in a neat pattern, taking it all in, before gradually taking things one at a time from Hunk’s bed as well and adding them to his pile.

“Do you think the room monitor would care if we hung some stuff up?” he asks, and he can already tell that Hunk is worried, “Not with nails or anything. You know, with… tape, or something strong enough to hold up a tarp, but not something that’s gonna ruin the walls.”

Hunk clicks his tongue, padding over to stand next to Lance as Lance focuses on the far corner of the room. It seems as though Hunk is trying to imagine whatever he’s seeing in his mind’s eye, but Lance is still too worried about shattering the illusion of how romantic this might be to clue him in.

It’s Hunk’s room too, so maybe it’s not fair, but Hunk isn’t complaining just yet. He’s waiting patiently. He seems to understand that Lance will talk more about this once he wraps his head around exactly what he plans to do.

“I don’t know, man,” Hunk tells him, “Remember when I hung up that poster with sticky tack? The monitor flipped out so bad about it that I thought he was gonna get me expelled or something.”

Lance crosses his arms over his chest, tipping back his head to stare up at the ceiling.

“Well, you’re an engineer, and I’ve seen just about every movie where the protagonist pulls off some extravagantly romantic display, so maybe we could figure it out…”

Hunk laughs at that, making a joke about their  _ “combined superpowers” _ , before looping around Lance and fiddling with all of the things on the bed. He seems to be piecing together the basics of what Lance is planning, just from the relationships between the items that he’s bought.

And Lance continues to round the room, pressing his fingers into the walls, squinting hard at the off-colored paint and wondering if they could mask any marks that they might make in it without alerting the monitor.

“Doris Day?” Hunk laughs, and Lance can hear the crinkling of the cardboard record sleeves being jostled as he thumbs through them, “Irma Thomas? Lance, my grandma listens to this music. Are you trying to put him to sleep or something? Is your birthday present just giving him a nice nap?”

His laughter is cut short when Lance stomps across the room, tearing the records from his hands with a hot glare.

“It’s romantic!” he practically shrieks, “Come on, Hunk, just think of it—these old tunes playing on a crackly old record player, the two of us, dancing in the moonlight. The stars are bright, the sky is clear of clouds—”

“You’re both freezing to death because it’s getting really cold at night now.”

Lance juts out his bottom lip. He takes great care in setting the records down as gingerly as possible.

“Yeah, I thought of that. Don’t worry.”

“Is that what the tarps are for? They don’t seem very warm, man. I think they’re for photography or something. Just because they look like blankets, that doesn’t mean that you’re supposed to cover up with them.”

Lance pushes out an aggravated breath, propping his hands on his hips and swiveling around to look over the room again.

“Look, if I explain this to you, will you stop acting like I don’t have all of this figured out?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hunk nod—once, then twice, slowly, as though he isn’t quite sure if he’s ready to hear what Lance has concocted that’s so intrinsic to potentially messing up their room.

“Alright, well, you’d better prepare yourself.”

He drags in a deep breath, turning to send Hunk his most winning smile.

“Because when you hear what I have in store for Keith, I can’t promise that you won’t fall in love with me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Happy Friday! I was looking at my outline when I finished this chapter, and I was… very taken aback by how close we’re getting to the end. I’d say a good five or six chapters, which seems like so little, but even still, that’s over a month of weekly posting anyway!
> 
> That being said, I will be taking another break next week for the new VLD season! For those of you who have been around since the beginning, you’ll remember that I did the same thing with season four, which is… weird, to think that this story has actually extended between two whole seasons! So, after next week, I will resume posting on March 9th!
> 
> Anyway, this week’s chapter title is the favorite cheese of **AllennellA**! Thank you so much for sharing that with me!  
>  So, until the 9th, thank you so much for reading! I hope you guys enjoyed this, and I hope you enjoy the new season as well!


	21. Panela

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's Specials: A family dinner, mysterious drawings, and a shocking revelation

****Lance wonders if maybe, sometimes, going to a dinner arrangement empty-handed is better than bringing some kind of gift. He’d always heard that coming to any party empty-handed was considered rude—in some instances, absolutely unforgivable. He still remembers his mom ranting to his grandmother on the phone about a woman who had attended her wedding shower without some kind of present. And he was ten back then, when he’d heard her still complaining about a reception that surely took place a good ten years before he was even born.

And while he’s old enough by now that he can understand why a wedding party is definitely different than dinner with his future in-laws, he still can’t help but wonder, if maybe, it would have been better just to forgo the stereotypical dinner offering, if only because he’s apparently absolutely incapable of being anywhere suave enough to choose the right gift.

He’d read somewhere before that bringing a bottle of wine to a fancy dinner was the appropriate, polite thing to do. He’d seen it in movies before. And every time that his parents had invited one of his father’s friends over for dinner, they’d always come with a six pack of beer—which is close enough, anyway, Lance thinks. It’s still alcohol, and still some kind of peace offering or payment for the free food.

The problem, however, lies in the fact that he’s still too young to actually be able to _buy_ the wine. Hunk had laughed when he’d pondered how easy it would be to find someone around campus to buy it for him. He’d clicked his tongue when Lance had went through all his contacts in search of someone with older, cooler friends, who might be able to “hook him up.” When he’d started asking around for a fake I.D., Hunk had rolled his eyes and warned him not to do anything too stupid.

And Hunk had only stopped him once he’d grown desperate enough to consider pressuring Pidge into asking her older brother to buy him a bottle—and only because Hunk was smart enough to realize that Matt went to school five hours away, and his frantic text message comprised of, _“Pidge!!!! It’s an emergency!!! Call your brother ASAP!!!”_ might not have translated as clearly as Lance might have been capable of considering in a moment of weakness.

In the end, Hunk had introduced him to a nice brand of sparkling grape juice. He’d said that it was better, anyway. It was sweeter than real wine. It was something that himself and Keith could actually drink without breaking any laws.It would make a better impression, Hunk had told him. It would show Keith’s parents that he wasn’t bold enough to suggest drinking while underage in front of them. Lance had wondered in that moment if he was really going to go through his entire four years in college without getting drunk even once, but then he’d wondered if that was even the sort of thing that Keith would be interested in anyway.

Keith seemed to have had many opportunities to drink at Shiro’s parties. He’d been familiar enough with the general setup that he knew where Shiro often kept the sodas by the pool. And he’d spoken of them as though they happened often—which Lance considers, with how frequently he’s learning that their parents aren’t home, it would make sense that Shiro would have the freedom to do pretty much anything that he wanted, the majority of the time.

Keith has never seemed particularly interested in breaking the rules, which even after all this time, is one thing that continues to catch Lance by surprise. But it makes him wonder if maybe Hunk was right—that Keith would respect more him for choosing the alcohol-free option—and if maybe, once again, he’s overthinking all of this.

But as it is, he feels like an idiot now. He feels like he probably could have gotten away with just pretending that he wasn’t aware that it was expected for him to bring a gift. They might have brushed that off, if he weren’t standing here with this stupid bottle of grape juice, like the world’s biggest moron, with no money and even less tact. If he weren’t so dead-set on living up to outdated societal standards that he’s even willing to make a mockery of them in front of his boyfriend’s adoptive parents.

He sucks in a deep breath. The grape juice doesn’t matter. He’ll be fine. Keith will still want to be with him, even if he makes a fool out of himself now. He tries to reassure himself that all of this is just himself, once again, blowing things way out of proportion.

This isn’t high school anymore. People don’t break up with their boyfriends over something as silly as bringing the wrong kind of drink to a date. Keith isn’t like the other people who he’s pined after before. If Lance were being totally honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he has a feeling that Keith probably won’t even notice.

The door creaks open, light pours out onto the porch. He’s greeted by Shiro’s soft, welcoming smile. He offers a flimsy, half-hearted grin in response, as Shiro rests a hand on his shoulder and ushers him in.

“I think you know the drill by now,” Shiro tells him, pausing only to nod his head toward the staircase, laughter evident in his tone, even as he tries to keep his voice even and calm, “Keith’s still getting ready. I _might_ have forgotten to tell him that you’d be joining us tonight until… thirty minutes ago. I guess he didn’t want you to see him in his pajamas.”

As Shiro continues to lead him into the living room, Lance allows his mind to wander to what Keith might decide to wear to bed. The idea of him lounging around the house in something warm and comfy, something loose-fitting and perhaps even adorned with the childish prints that Lance’s family always picks out for him—it’s enough to calm his nerves. And it’s enough to distract him from his stomach tying itself in endless knots, as his subconscious still wrestles with the mere concept of finally meeting Keith and Shiro’s elusive parents for the very first time.

He likes to think that maybe Keith’s taste in nightwear would be more along the lines of a big, oversized t-shirt that would fall over one of his broad, knobby shoulders. Maybe he’d opt only to wear boxers underneath. Maybe, if Lance conveniently forgot a few of his shirts here, Keith would wear those too. Maybe he’d enjoy the way that they smelled like Lance, the idea that he’d worn them around during his day.

But this train of thought feels subtly creepy, in a way that Lance feels might be inappropriate right as he’s meeting the parents for the very first time.

So he forces himself to think of anything else—which, given the current situation at hand, he imagines should probably be the idea of who he’s just about to introduce himself to, and what in the world he could possibly say to make them like him right away.

Keith still doesn’t talk about his parents often, even after an entire month that they’ve been dating. He mentions them in passing at random times, when something sparks a memory, when Lance garners enough courage to ask. But he’s always brief, as he is with most personal information. He’s still embarrassed by it, Lance thinks, that he actually has ties to other people, that he cares about them. And maybe even that someone else finally cares enough to ask about them at all.

Sometimes he tells Lance about touch football in the front yard. He laughs about how Shiro’s dad still brags that he used to beat Shiro when he was ten, because now Shiro is so big and strong and fast that he wins effortlessly every time.

Sometimes he talks about their mother—how she likes to bake. How she tiptoes around the idea of them taking classes together someday, but she’s still too embarrassed to ask.

And sometimes he talks about their absences, but it doesn’t seem to bother him too much. It seems, to Lance, that he’s old enough to understand. That he’s surprised, still, that they’re so eager to spend their free time with him when it’s so often fleeting.

_“Shiro’s great aunt is sick, so… his mom goes over there a lot to help the family take care of her. She fell or something, I guess. But usually she’s around a lot more. She does a lot of charities and stuff, so she’s always bringing all of these other women from her charity groups over and they all just drink tea and talk about, like… gossip and old lady stuff. But it’s fine. She always makes these little sandwiches with toothpicks in them when she has company, and no one ever eats a lot of them, so me and Shiro get the leftovers once they leave.”_

Keith had told him this just a week or so ago, when Lance had asked why it seemed as though his parents were never home.

 _“And his dad works a lot,”_ he’d added, staring blankly through the cafe window where they’d settled for a rare overlapping lunch break, sipping coffee and eating bagels, ignoring the swift passing of time before the two of them would be forced to separate again, _“He’s a lawyer, so he’s always working, even when he’s at home. He always takes a few weeks off during the summer though. We all go on vacation to resorts and museums and, just… boring family places. I went to this amusement park with them the first year, but they let me stay here last summer, so I could work at the Deli with Allura. He’s not… neglectful or mean or anything. He’s just really busy. And when he’s around, he just likes talking about sports. He’s the one who talked Shiro’s mom into letting me take martial arts, so… that was pretty cool, I guess.”_

Lance had collected all of this data in the back of his mind, written it down in a journal that he keeps tucked underneath his mattress. He’d felt like a weirdo then, when he’d started scribbling all of this information down, like possibly the biggest stalker imaginable—so much so, that he hadn’t even told Hunk, and especially not Pidge. He’d told himself that keeping literal tabs on a partner couldn’t have been healthy for either of them, but he’d wanted to remember these things.

He’d wanted to go over them during the days leading up to this birthday party, to gather all of the intel that he could, just in case he’d needed something solid to fall back on.

Because now, as he rounds the corner into the living room, he sees the family photo on the staircase, brought to life.

He sees Shiro’s mom setting the table in the dining room, just under the archway across the room. He sees Shiro’s dad splayed out on the couch, focused on some sports show on TV.

And he feels his heart crawl straight up into his throat. His mind, reliably as ever, completely blanks.

He takes a wobbly step forward, Shiro’s hand feeling like a thousand pounds of warm, solid stone against his shoulder. He can’t hear much of anything over his pulse pounding in his ears. Even when both of Shiro’s parents turn their dark eyes and friendly smiles up to him, he feels as though he’s standing in the middle of a tsunami, unable to comprehend much of anything but how terribly he wishes that he were anywhere but here.

Shiro’s dad is broad shouldered, wrinkled around the eyes. His hair is graying at the fringes near his ears. He’s big in a sweater that Lance thinks might hang far down beyond the tips of his own fingers. It’s tight on him—around his rounded belly, over his thick arms. One big leg is propped up on top of the other. One gigantic hand is raised in a gentle greeting—and if he speaks, Lance can’t hear him. But he can hear every ounce of blood pushing like hot iron through his veins. He can feel every pore in his skin filled with ice water.

He can see Shiro’s dad now, his smile creasing at the edges. He looks unsure, like maybe he’s suddenly, painfully aware of how socially inadequate his son’s boyfriend really is.

And Shiro’s mom is round around the hips, more full figured and matronly than she’d looked in the photograph on the stairs. She’s still wearing the white strands in her hair proudly. She’s dressed in another turtleneck—red, this time. Keith’s favorite color. He wonders if she picked it because of that. He wonders if anyone but himself chooses outfits based off of loved ones’ favorite _anything_.

He wonders why he’s not speaking now—why he’s messing this up immediately, before he even has a chance to greet either of them.

But Shiro’s hand, still heavy and oppressive and so terribly warm—it claps him lightly, pushes him forward. He stumbles and sputters. He’s floundering here, helplessly. He feels as though the entire world around him is spinning at such a dizzying pace that time must be lurching forward three times the regular speed.

“This is Lance, of course,” Shiro says—and finally, Lance can hear something outside of his own body. He takes a short moment to thank whichever deity is watching out for him that he hasn’t gone deaf at such an pivotal moment, “Keith’s told our parents all about you, Lance, so you don’t have to be nervous.”

But Shiro, Lance notices, sounds nervous. He thinks back to that warning, so many weeks ago. He thinks about that awful story, about the mistrust that Shiro expects from his parents, the horrible things that happened to Keith.

And he swallows thickly. He clenches his fists at his sides.

And he forces on the widest smile that he can muster, training his words slowly, carefully, and smothering any ounce of terror out of his voice.

“I—It’s really nice to meet both of you. I, um… I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

They seem surprised to hear this, but the shock only rests in their expressions for a fraction of a second. Shiro’s mom is the first one to smile again: a grin so broad and bright that Lance feels his fear shrink exponentially. She laughs—bubbly and open, still surprised, somewhat, but sincere in a way that catches Lance entirely off-guard—as she finishes arranging the cutlery on the table, tucking it neatly under the plates.

“Does Keith really talk to you that much?” she asks, and while he might have expected words like those to sound condescending, there’s only affection in her voice, “it took us forever to get him to talk to us at all! Even three words, even telling us if he had a good day at work, or what he wanted for dinner. For a long time, we wondered if he just didn’t like talking. Honestly, when Takashi told us that his brother had started opening up to someone, I couldn’t believe it.”

Shiro’s dad cuts in then, “He isn’t the most open person in general, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Lance’s smile falters, as he shoves his free hand into his pocket. He’s still cradling the bottle of sparkling grape juice in the crook of one elbow, and he feels foolish, once again, for ever thinking that this was a good idea. He can already imagine the entire family laughing at how stupid he is, for thinking that something that only cost him $5 at the grocery store was an appropriate gift for them. He imagines, in this moment, the group of them crowded around it later in the night, poking and prodding at it in confusion.

 _“Where did he even go to find something this inexpensive?”_ they’d ask, and the doubt would begin to culminate in their hearts. The realization that Lance couldn’t provide for Keith. The idea that maybe his paying for their first date was a fluke, an investment, even, in dating a boy who could surely support him on his parents’ dime for the rest of his life.

“Do you want me to take that?” Shiro asks, his voice even and quiet, still edged with his own discomfort and concern, but somewhat less tense than it had been when he’d first brought Lance in. Lance isn’t sure how he feels about Shiro being his only comfort here, his single support. He isn’t sure if he feels too comfortable with how swiftly the tables are turning.

He still feels the undeniable urge to impress Shiro too, even now. He still feels like he has to be on his very best behavior. But even still, despite this, he’s relieved that it seems as though Shiro has taken it upon himself to be his buffer here and now.

He smiles tentatively, nodding quick and shallow and choking out a _‘you’re welcome’_ when Shiro thanks him and tells him that he didn’t have to bring a gift.

And he wonders if Shiro’s family notices that he doesn’t have anything for Keith. If they’re judging that too. If they’re contemplating whether or not he forgot whatever box in fancy wrapping paper or tissue paper stuffed bag that he might have shoved Keith’s birthday present into. If they think that maybe, he really is so cheap or heartless or completely useless that he’d neglect to bring anything for their son. He isn’t sure if Keith told them how hopelessly romantic he can be at times. He doesn't know if maybe they were expecting more from him, and now he’s let them down.

But even if he can’t see any judgement in their expressions, his mind does a phenomenal job of conjuring it up anyway. He can already hear their voices in his thoughts later on, asking each other quietly after he leaves, _“He couldn’t even get our son anything on the first birthday that they’re spending together? Is this really the kind of guy who we want Keith hanging out with?”_

He shakes his head again, shuffling over to the couch and sitting gently on the very, very edge. Shiro’s dad has trained his gaze to the game on the television momentarily, and Lance jumps when those eyes suddenly flick back to him.

“So Lance,” Shiro’s dad starts, his big arm stretched out over the back of the couch, his hand so close that he could reach forward and pull Lance’s hair, if he so much as wanted to, “Keith’s told us that you go to school around here. You live in the dorms, right? What are you studying?”

Lance stares at him for a moment too long. It starts getting weird. He can practically feel the awkward tension sitting heavy and thick in the space between them.

But his thoughts are jamming up, rapid speed. It’s a fifty-eight car pileup in his brain, and the ambulance is buried somewhere under a semi truck. All hope is lost. No survivors.

Calamity, everywhere.

He feels like he might pass out.

“I—” he pauses to take a few shallow, anxious gulps of air. He’s trying desperately to remember the breathing exercises that Keith taught him from his yoga class.

 _Nadi_ —sitting cross legged with his wrists on his knees, the stereotypical pose that he remembers from all of the movies. Keith sitting so close that he can feel the warmth of him popping between them.

 _Shodhana_ —Keith leaning forward in downward dog, in those tantalizing dark, elastic pants.

 _Nadi_ —channeling inner peace. Finding quiet and calm in the midst of a stressful life.

 _Shodhana_ —Keith’s beautiful smile peeking over a sweat-glistening shoulder, under an unruly, tangled mop of hair.

 _Nadi._ He’s going to die here.

 _Shodhana._ Even thinking about Keith doing yoga again is going to give him an aneurysm, right in the middle of the Shiroganes’ living room.

“I-I’m in media. You know, like… broadcasting, marketing, that… sort of thing?”

Shiro’s dad doesn’t seem to notice that Lance is a powder keg, lit and ready to explode. His smile only deepens, and his fingers brush over the buttons on the remote in the very same way that Shiro’s had when they’d first talked here, just over a month ago.

Lance swallows again, so hard that his throat stings.

“So, what sort of job are you hoping to get with that degree?”

Oh god. His life is over.

He can’t think about this right now.

He’d always told his mom that he wanted to be on TV. He’d always said that media was his stepping stone to working on the set of some daytime television show, to hosting the nightly news. To having his own talk show someday, perhaps—but he really isn’t sure. He’s never taken it too seriously, never thought about it far beyond the idea that he loves people, he loves to communicate, he’s always wanted to connect with everyone, all at once.

But he feels as though someone as well put-together as Shiro’s father wouldn’t understand this. He feels as though no one could really understand it, aside from maybe Keith.

Keith had told him, when he’d admitted feeling aimless, even while pursuing a beloved major, _“Well, you’re moving forward. And it’s the moving that matters, isn’t it? If you keep going, you’re gonna end up somewhere eventually.”_

It hadn’t really occurred to him that he could still impress Keith, even after admitting that he felt as hopeless and directionless in school as Keith felt out of it.

But he’d asked Keith then, what he would study if he ever got the chance to go to school, and Keith had pulled his gaze away, pink staining his cheeks.

_“I don’t really know… I guess I’d just be happy to be as driven as you. Just to, you know… have at least an idea of what I wanted.”_

It’s getting weird again. Shiro has stepped back into the room, sitting on the other side of his dad and watching Lance with an expression so pitying that Lance can’t look at him for too long.

“I—I mean, I guess I’m… not sure. But I’d really like to work on TV or something, you know? Like maybe do commercials or something.”

For some reason, this makes both Shiro and his dad laugh. He’s offended, for a split second, and he almost defends himself—until he remembers who he’s talking to, where he is, who he is.

And how desperately he wants to make a good impression, even if these people are going to do nothing but poke fun at him.

Instead, he swallows that indignation. But his eyes are wide nonetheless. His cheeks are so hot that he wonders if they’ve ramped up the temperature in the entire house. He wouldn’t be surprised now if Shiro’s parents are regretting deciding to wear such warm clothes with such a space heater of a son-in-law in their midst.

But he doesn’t get much of an opportunity to fester in this newfound insecurity, because Shiro is quick to cut off that train of thought.

“Lance, sorry, we’re not laughing at you, we promise,” Shiro tells him, “It’s just—it’s something that Keith said. He… he seems to have a very high opinion of you.”

Shiro’s dad, still laughing quietly, turns to Shiro then. He puffs out his chest, rolling his shoulders forward. He seems to be trying to emulate Keith’s regular posture, if Lance has memorized it well enough.

_“He’s handsome enough to be a newscaster, don’t you think? He has a face for the news, or the movies, or TV, right? You know he does, Shiro!”_

The voice that his father uses is higher pitched, gruffer. Shiro spits a laugh, apologizes again, and Lance feels his skin heating up once again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

Shiro’s mom, still in the dining room, tells the two of them to knock it off. She’s laughing too, very lightly, as though she doesn’t approve of this, no matter how much it might amuse her.

“You’re just determined to embarrass this poor boy to death, aren’t you? I’m sure Lance knows that Keith thinks the world of him. I mean, they _are_ dating.”

Lance’s confirmation of this is shaky and unsure. It’s a high pitched, raspy affirmation, but no one seems to think that anything about that is abnormal.

Shiro and his father continue to talk about Keith, as Lance tucks himself further back on the couch, and finds himself so lost in the various tidbits of information that slowly, he begins to calm down.

They’re talking about something with the Deli, some note in the back room. Lance isn’t entirely sure why it’s relevant, but his father is asking Shiro if whatever-it-is is still there. And he seems incredibly amused that apparently, it is.

“I never thought he took those art classes very seriously, but he sure honed all of his abilities on that little napkin drawing. He even got the magic markers after it—”

“Well, of course. If you’re going to make such a masterpiece, you’d better put your all into it, right? And you know Keith. He can’t do anything halfway. It’s always gotta be his all.”

Lance allows his gaze to trail over to them. He listens to the easy flow of their conversation, the admiration in their voices. He begins to focus less on what they’re talking about, and more on their mannerisms, wondering, idly, what Keith must think when he looks at them.

He wonders if there will ever come a time when Keith doesn’t stumble over calling these people his family. He wonders how they might feel if they were to hear him call them “mom” and “dad”. He wonders if Keith feels insecure about it, if he’s worried—if there’s a part of him that doubts that any of this is real, it’s too good to be true—in the very same way that Lance can’t shake off his persistent doubts about their relationship.

“Lance, you’ll have to see it someday. I’ll have to bring you into the backroom at the Deli.”

Shiro is looking at him now, smiling broadly with pink cheeks, with a voice hoarse from laughter.

“Keith isn’t usually one to share his artwork, but about a week or so after you started coming to the Deli, he drew—”

“Can you guys seriously not go five minutes without talking about weird shit like that?!”

Lance jumps so high that he can actually hear the couch rattling underneath him. He whips his head around, just as Shiro and his dad begin to laugh again, to find Keith—dressed up just as nicely as he always is on his days off, standing in the threshold of the door with his arms crossed over his chest. His cheeks are so red that they nearly match the exact shade of his mother’s sweater.

“Oh, come on, Keith! It’s cute!”

Lance isn’t entirely sure who says that—if it’s Shiro or his dad. Their voices are already too similar, and once again, there’s so much blood rushing in his ears that he can barely comprehend the goings on around him.

“It’s not cute! It’s not even how you’re trying to make it sound! You—you’re acting like I was drawing a picture of him because I had some big crush on him, but _Shiro aske_ d! He asked what Lance looked like, and I couldn’t explain it right, so I drew a picture!”

Shiro is craning his neck now, leaning forward to get a better look at Keith, still standing very still in the doorway. Lance’s voice lodges deep down inside of his throat. He can’t focus on much of anything but the thoughts slowly untangling in his brain—the mere insinuation that somewhere, there exists a portrait of him that Keith drew.

And for whatever reason, even as Keith claims that it wasn’t anything serious, that picture _still_ exists. For whatever reason, even back then, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

“No one asked you to hang it on the bulletin board in the break room though.”

Keith huffs, and even as Lance continues to gape at him, he won’t look away from Shiro’s face. Shiro himself is laughing again, apologizing again. It seems as though he isn’t nearly as sorry as he’s pretending to be. It seems as though this might be exactly what he was expecting to happen when he started talking about this, surely, when he was actually coherent enough to hear Keith heading from his room and down the stairs.

“Whatever,” Keith grits out, stepping forward into the room, so timidly that Lance wonders if he’s somehow even more nervous now than Lance himself is, “It’s not weird to draw pictures of your boyfriend. I—I mean, it’s not! There’s nothing weird about that!”

Lance’s skin is so hot by now that he might be able to boil an egg on it. He drags a hand through his hair, the corners of his lips twitching as his fingers drag in the product. And he tries to be subtle as he attempts to blindly put it back in place, before turning, once again, to send Keith another look.

“I—I mean, I think it’s cute, so I… don’t think it’s weird.”

He isn’t sure if he’s helping or not, because Shiro snorts again, and Keith sends him the most mortified expression imaginable. But it calms everything down enough that Keith feels comfortable drawing nearer, before wedging himself between Lance and Shiro’s dad on the couch.

It’s just wide enough that Shiro’s mom might be able to fit as well, and the group of them could watch TV, maybe spend time together watching sports or some new movie that they’d bought on _pay per view_. He takes a moment, to distract himself from how close and how warm and soft Keith is, to ponder how often the entire family gets together to spend quality time here. He wonders if Allura comes too, if they can ever coax Keith out of his room for family night.

And he wonders if Keith is happy, in those moments. If he’d ever experienced anything like that before he’d moved here.

“I’m sorry,” Keith mutters, peeking at him meekly from the corner of his eye, as he does a shabby job of pretending that he’s focusing all of his attention on whatever sport is happening on TV, “I took too long getting ready again, and… I’m sure they grilled you or said something weird while I was upstairs.”

He seems flustered—more so than Lance might expect from someone in this position. He seems as though he’s expecting for Lance to shoot up in his seat any second now and just take off. As though he really thinks that Lance wasn’t loving every moment of the Keith gossip—hearing about all of the things that Keith would be too embarrassed to tell him, finding out little tidbits of information from the people who get to spend time with Keith when Lance is too busy with work or school.

“They’re nice,” Lance says quietly, simply, “It’s fine. You look really good, by the way.”

Keith’s responding smile is lopsided. It’s awkward and unsure, as deep scarlet bleeds up under his cheekbones, and he bites down lightly on his bottom lip.

“Th-thanks, uh… you do too.”

Lance perks up slightly, grasping his hands together in his lap.

“Happy Birthday, by the way! Uh—I, I got you something, but I kinda… I couldn’t carry it on my bike. Do you think your folks would mind if we went back to my dorm after dinner and I could… give it to you?”

To his credit, Keith doesn’t seem as horrified by the suggestion as Lance thinks that he should be. Moments after the words left his mouth, he’d immediately realized how perverted every part of it had sounded—how suspicious, how depraved. And he wants nothing more than to explain himself, but he knows that this would only draw more attention to them. His voice, already, is gaining a very dangerous volume and tempo.

Shiro’s mom is still distracted in the kitchen. Shiro and his dad are chatting idly about the game on TV. It seems as though no one heard Lance’s little slip-up but Keith, who’s currently smiling in a way that Lance knows is only so forced because he’s trying not to laugh.

“This isn’t a drive-in movie kinda thing, right? Where you invite me somewhere private to…”

“N-no! No, I really… I swear there’s a physical gift! I wouldn’t—I mean—you wouldn’t really be happy if I tried to give you _that_ kind of gift, would you?”

The smirk that Keith sends him is cut short, unfortunately, as is the beginnings of a sentence that Lance wishes more than anything that he could hear the end of.

“Well, I can’t say I would mi—”

“Dinner’s ready! Everyone come have a seat!”

Maybe it’s fate, Lance thinks. Maybe it’s a serendipitous gift from the Creator themselves that they don’t get to have this conversation right here, right now. Nonetheless, it takes everything within him not to groan miserably.

Realistically, he knows that things are moving fast enough as it is. Keith seems more than happy to let that confession fizzle out as he rises from the couch and makes his way into the dining room.

And when they arrive, Lance has enough sense about him to note that even the plates seem expensive. They’re new, he thinks—or so well taken care of that it seems as though they’ve never been eaten off of, or washed, or dropped from the clumsy hands of children and chipped on the floor.

He thinks for a moment about the dinnerware back home—about the plastic cups that his mom still keeps around from when he was a kid. How none of their stuff matches, how it came pre-scratched and short a few pieces from flea markets that marked a hefty percentage off of the price. He wonders if the Shiroganes have ever went into a thrift store before. A discount, second-hand shop. Or even the Salvation Army, or the food banks that supported his family during the few short months that his father couldn’t find work when he was a preteen.

He wonders what they might think of the cheap things that his family uses every single day.

They seem like nice people. They seem as though they’d try to understand.

And from what he’s learned about Keith, he knows that this is weird for him too. He can’t ignore how Keith slides in carefully, how lightly he holds his cutlery.

Like he’s afraid of how expensive of a piece he might be breaking. Like he knows, deep down, that he probably couldn’t ever afford to touch this stuff either if he hadn’t been adopted into this life in the first place.

Two years really isn’t a very long time at all, Lance thinks.

And he wonders, as Shiro’s mom begins setting the serving plates in the center of the table, how long it might really take before Keith is comfortable enough with this life to accept that it isn’t ever going to change. Not anymore, at least. This one thing, Lance thinks, will be static and stable for the rest of his life. And for a moment, Lance hopes that maybe he can be a part of that too.

“We made your favorite,” Shiro’s mom says, nudging Keith in the back of the shoulder with her elbow as she leans down to set a big plate right in front of him, “This nice lady in my cardio club had the exact same recipe that you remembered! I’d never heard of it before, but she said that her family has been making it like that for years!”

Lance steals a look in Keith’s direction, taking in the way that he gulps deeply, how his cheeks burn as he nods and forces out a small thanks. He isn’t mortified as he was earlier. He isn’t humiliated or angry.

There’s a peculiar wetness glistening in his eyes that Lance isn’t sure what to make of. There’s a sagging to his shoulders. A meek way that his words feebly reach out and die prematurely, as though he isn’t even strong enough to be heard properly now.

He’s touched, Lance knows. He’s surprised, even after all of this time, that anyone would care enough to do all of this for him. And Lance is happy, just as much as he’s sad. He’s sad that any of this isn’t totally normal by now. That Keith wouldn’t just expect it.

But he appreciates the Shiroganes—no matter how much they make him nervous. He appreciates that they care enough, that they brought Keith into his life.

And he’s thankful, now, that they allowed him to watch Keith like this—humbled and happy. So touched by something as simple as dinner that he can barely even speak.

The food smells delicious. Lance tries his best to mimic the motions of everyone around him, to take only as much food as everyone else. It looks too good to not gorge himself, and he can already hear Hunk’s voice nagging him hours from now, begging for all of the details so he can paint a perfect picture of how good or bad of a cook Keith’s mom apparently is.

He tries to memorize the image of everything as well as he can, for Hunk’s sake. He stops himself short of taking out his phone and just snapping a few pictures, because no matter how awkward and socially inept he is, he can’t bring himself to ever cross a line that bold.

He doesn’t recognize much of anything in front of him—save for the white rice and a few sauces that he thinks might be speckled with sesame seeds. There’s plenty of meat and vegetables—plenty of different flavor combinations to choose from, and he doesn’t miss the way that Keith’s eyes widen in excitement as he helps himself to a few very large servings.

Keith eats quietly after that. He’s in his own private bubble now—just as he always is when he eats. Sloppy, fast. No one says anything about his questionable table manners, but Lance nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a firm warmth suddenly resting on the top of his thigh.

He barely stops himself in time from yelling out, but he bites his lip just in time. A frantic look in Keith’s direction offers nothing but Keith shoving more food in his mouth, seemingly intent on ignoring him.

But the hand on his leg drags down, searching. It’s not treading in any questionable territory, but it takes Lance a moment to realize what he’s vying after.

Slowly, with hot cheeks, he switches his fork to his less dominant hand, and slides the other down to meet Keith’s. And Keith smiles then—small, but beautiful, pleased as though this is all that he could have ever wanted.

Lance chokes on a mouthful of mashed potatoes. He chokes on all of the _‘I love you’_ s pressing up into his throat. He chokes on his own embarrassment, on every horrible thing that he could say right now.

But dinner is peaceful and quiet. Even Keith’s request to leave with Lance after they’re done is met with an understanding and affectionate playfulness that catches both Lance, and surprisingly, Keith, off-guard.

Keith runs upstairs to grab his jacket, and Lance is left standing awkwardly, once again, in the center of the living room as the Shiroganes clean up the plates from the table. He’d made an effort to help earlier, only to be shooed away, told gently but firmly by Shiro’s mother that guests shouldn’t be expected to lift a finger after a meal.

He’s twiddling his fingers uncomfortably now, glancing about as he counts down the seconds from when Keith climbed the staircase, to the moment when he’ll hopefully be heard leaving his room.

“Why don’t you guys take the van back to your dorm?” Keith’s dad asks suddenly, peering around the corner of the entryway from the dining room into the living room. Lance flinches slightly in surprise, at the sound of his voice, and it takes his mind a few moments too long to catch up with the words that are still hanging, excruciatingly, between them.

“I—I uh… I don’t have a license.”

Shiro’s laughter, once again, makes his cheeks feel hot.

“But Keith does. You guys can load your bike into the back. It’s chilly outside tonight. And if your gift was too big to carry here on your bike, won’t it still be difficult if he doesn’t have a car to carry it home in?”

Lance gulps, scratching nervously at the back of his head.

There are two ideas currently dueling in his brain.

One: Shiro and his family _absolutely, without a doubt,_ heard their mortifyingly suggestive conversation earlier.

And, two: he has no way of convincing them that they won’t need a van for his gift without making it sound even more suspicious than before.

“We might as well take the van, I guess.”

Lance nearly tumbles over with how quickly he whirls around to face Keith—just in time, as always, here to save him. Wearing his media jacket, as per their new usual, with his arms crossed over his chest.

“I have the keys, so I’ll see you later. I’ll text if I’m gonna be back late.”

He has Lance by the arm again, leading him towards the entryway. Lance is entirely too slack-jawed and overwhelmed to argue, or to ask many questions, until the door is closed safely behind them, and Keith is typing in the code next to the garage to lift the automatic door.

“Y-you can drive?”

Keith sends him a blank look over his shoulder, lowering his brows before he steps inside.

“Is that really that surprising?”

Lance takes a moment to draw in a deep breath. He scrubs a hand over his face, collecting his thoughts as neatly as he can before stepping forward to grasp his bike by the handles and wheel it into the garage behind Keith.

“I-I mean… I guess not. But, you know… you’re always having me ride us places on my bike, so I thought—”

“I like being close to you. Is that weird?”

Keith says it as though he’s trying to start a fight—in a short, aggressive bark of the words through gritted teeth—but Lance knows better by now. He’s been around Keith long enough to understand that he gets defensive when he’s embarrassed. He’s only more testy and short-fused the more uncomfortable he becomes.

“I don’t think that’s weird,” Lance says, pausing when Keith pops the rear-door of the car, as they both hoist his bike up into the back, “I mean, I think… I also prefer having you straddling me, and we can’t exactly do that in the car, so... “

Keith spits a laugh—quiet and contained, with pink cheeks and a small smile that he’s struggling to hide. His fingers brush against Lance’s as they both push down the door, and for a moment, it’s just the two of them in a dark, quiet garage.

It’s just himself, taking a tentative step forward, dropping his eyelids and reaching forward to take both of Keith’s hands in his.

It’s chillier than it has been so far this year. His lips meet Keith’s, their noses bump. And Keith drags in a long, shaky breath, kisses him back. He can hear the TV buzzing through the connecting wall between the garage and the living room. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the light from inside the window spilling out into the night.

When he pulls away, Keith is slow to open his eyes. And he feels it, once again—that uncontrollable urge to belt out his feelings. He bites it off with teeth pressed hard into his bottom lip. He pulls his hands out of Keith’s, shoving them far down into his pockets.

And instead, he says the other horrible thing that won’t stop rattling around in his mind.

“Did you really draw a picture of me?”

Keith groans, and the moment is broken. Their dark, peaceful silence, shattered and replaced with Keith tearing away and making a quick beeline for the other side of the van.

The door slams as he throws himself inside. Lance can’t help but laugh, just a little, at how quickly he starts the car. As though he’s so embarrassed or so annoyed that he’d run him over and leave him pulverized here in the garage.

But he doesn’t waste time hesitating, and instead opens the passenger side door. He slides inside, shuts the door behind him, and he doesn’t press the issue until his seat belt clicks and Keith bends himself around to look through the rear window as he pulls out of the garage.

“Did you at least make me look as handsome in art form as I look in real life?”

Keith nearly mows down their mailbox on the way into the street. He curses loudly, reels around to send Lance a fiery glare.

“It wasn’t like that,” he spits, huffing in aggravation before he positions himself back into his seat, “It—it’s not like I was sitting there drawing some—I don’t know, like, some weird stalkerish portrait of you! Shiro was asking about you, and I couldn’t explain it, so I just… drew a picture of you. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“But you kept it. You hung it up in the break room, right?”

Keith won’t meet his eyes. He’s driving slowly through the streets, as though he doesn’t even trust himself not to have another emotional outburst and send them careening into a neighbor’s front yard.

“I—It’s not like I could just throw it away. It… looked too much like you.”

Lance is grinning so wide that his cheeks hurt.

“I wanna see it then. I wanna see how much of a babe you thought I was back then.”

And Keith laughs, finally, before telling him that he’s a dork. They pull into traffic—slowly, calmly, carefully enough that Lance stops worrying about the prospect of his untimely death at Keith’s hands. And Lance admires this new version of Keith—a cool guy with a license. A responsible guy whose parents trust him enough to let him borrow their car.

“It’s not very good,” Keith says then, focusing on the road, but still smiling, “I’ll have to draw you again and show you that one instead.”

Like Rose and Jack Dawson, Lance thinks. Like one of Keith’s French girls. Like a luxurious starlet splayed out naked on a plush couch.

And it reminds him, all over again, of where they’re headed now.

Hunk is staying with Pidge tonight, out of kindness and consideration of how important this is to Lance. He already filled out the appropriate forms to have a non-student spending time in his dorm. There’s a pass for Keith, already filled out, waiting for them at the front desk.

But they’ll be alone at night. With no prying eyes to see them, no nosy ears to listen. They’ll be together—just the two of them—between four walls, away from the hustle and bustle of busy streets. Far beyond the earshot of Keith’s family.

He could kiss Keith, and no one would see him. He could tell Keith anything then, and no one would be around to hear it.

His heart is pounding so hard in his chest that he wonders if Keith can feel it too—vibrating against the seat, pulsing louder even than the music playing quietly on the radio.

But Keith only reaches between them, slides his hand into Lance’s.

And Lance isn’t sure what the next few hours will bring, but he has faith in Keith—to appreciate all of the work that he’s done. To understand how hard he tried to make all of this perfect for him.

He isn’t worried that Keith won’t like it. He doesn’t think that any of this could end in anything but Keith, as reliably as he always has been, seeing Lance’s efforts and his dreams and aspirations for everything that he hopes that they’re worth.

He isn’t stressing out now because he thinks that things will go awry.

He knows that revealing this gift to Keith will end even better than it always does in his imagination.

It’s not the gift-giving that’s scaring him so much.

It’s all of the unknowns that exist after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Happy Friday! So was season five great, or what? I was on the edge of my seat the entire time! It was so, so good… and now I am back with another weekly cheese, which is… a little bit longer than usual. In celebration, maybe? Or perhaps just to make up for taking off last week! Either way, this chapter is slightly longer than the average cheese chapter. 
> 
> Also, for the last few weeks, **TLaw** has been helping me learn Spanish, so I can say this: A TLaw le gusta el queso panela. Esto es un regalo para TLaw. Muchas gracias, Traffy!  
>  (Lo siento, no hablo español muy bien!)
> 
> Also, do you feel like there were certain parts of this chapter that were a nod to [this particular piece of art?](https://twitter.com/4everbacon/status/950827824788590592) Hmmmmm, I guess you really gotta study the picture to be sure, don’t you?
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading! See you guys again next week!


	22. Brie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight’s Specials: Some much needed quality alone-time.

_ —-LadiesLoveLance has joined the chat—- _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh, look, Mr. Secretive decides to join us once again. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I’m not really sure where this insult is coming from, but I’m about to get an earful that’ll explain everything I need to know, right? _

_**Hunk3141** : I think you know, dude. You’ve only been avoiding telling her about Keith’s birthday for a whole month now. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Wait, does Hunk know what you did for Keith’s birthday? Am I seriously the only one out of the loop here? Is this your passive aggressive way of telling me that you don’t want to be my friend anymore or something? That’s why you’re keeping secrets from me now? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : No, Pidge! It’s not like that! It’s just kind of… private. _

_**Hunk3141** : He hasn’t told me anything either, Pidge. All of the decorations were put away by the time I got back the next day. _

_**Hunk3141** : Which is extra suspicious, if you think about it. Like, when’s the last time you heard of Lance cleaning anything? Especially our room! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Something didn’t… happen… did it? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Do I even want to know? Why am I setting myself up for this? _

_**Hunk3141** : Don’t even try, Pidge. I’ve tried everything to get it out of him! It’s been a whole month, and he seriously didn’t tell me a single thing about it! It’s creepy, isn’t it? Motormouth Lance not going on about a billion tangents about how pretty Keith was, or how kissable he was, or how nice he looked in his yoga pants. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, so you complain about me talking about things too much, but then you complain that I don’t talk about it enough? You can’t have it both ways! You either wanna hear about it or you don’t! _

_**Hunk3141** : Well, sometimes it does get excessive, but… don’t you think it’s a little strange not to say a single thing about it? I mean, you guys are still together, so it couldn’t have been that bad. And you seem pretty happy, if the amount of selfies that you take every morning is any indication. Or, you know, how long you talk on the phone with him, or how late you stay up every night texting him... So, it was good, right? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh, Lance… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You didn’t… in your dorm room?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Hunk sleeps in there, Lance! _

_**Hunk3141** : Wait, what did he do? I’m lost. Pidge, what did Lance do in our room? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I didn’t do anything! It’s not like that at all, so stop freaking Hunk out! _

_**Hunk3141** : Freaking me out about what?! What’s Pidge accusing you of?! Lance, what did you do in our room?! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : It was just kind of a personal moment, okay? It was kind of, you know, something… big. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : “Big”. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Big, as in… _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : No! No… Keith just… got a little emotional. _

_**Hunk3141** : Big as in what?! Pidge, Lance, seriously, what’s going on?! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I felt like it might be kind of weird to talk about it because he reacted a lot differently than I was expecting. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Keith got “emotional”? Like he cried, or he yelled at you again, or…? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, fine. I’ll tell you, but… you just have to promise not to say anything to him about it, okay? I know it’s been awhile, but I don’t think he’d be happy if he knew that I went blabbing about all of our relationship stuff to other people. _

_**Hunk3141** : Are you guys seriously not going to tell me what’s going on? Really? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Hunk, don’t worry about it! Nothing happened! Pidge is just being weird! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Lance, you know we’ll be nice! We didn’t say anything when we met him! It’s not like we have any way to contact him anyway. And it’s not like we’re going to run all the way to the Deli to make fun of him because he either appreciated a birthday gift or didn’t. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Wouldn’t that be more… Lance-level stalking? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Okay, I get it! Fine! Just chill out for a minute so I can type all of this out. Sheesh. You guys are more invested in this than I am… _

_**Hunk3141** : I don’t think that’s really possible. _

 

* * *

 

Keith gives the worker at the front desk a timid  _ ‘thank you’ _ as he takes his pass. He crinkles it in his fingers unsurely, as though he’s contemplating peeling the sticker from the wax paper and actually putting it on his shirt, as the instructions on the back caution him to.

“Don’t worry about that,” Lance tells him quickly, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and leading him towards the stairs, “No one is ever here this late at night to check you anyway. Plus, it’s not like we’re going to be wandering around in the halls for very long. My room is close.”

He can hear the pass crumpling as Keith shoves it into his pocket. Privately, he hopes that the hall monitor doesn’t actually stop them, because as it is, he isn’t exactly on the greatest of terms with the guy. He can already imagine the total mood-killer that would take place if they were stopped on their way to his room, if the power-hungry little punk saw Keith pulling a creased up, unused sticker out of his pocket as proof that he’s actually allowed to be here. It would be a headache, surely, and an absolute buzzkill. It would be embarrassing enough that he isn’t sure if he’d be able to bounce back and surprise Keith tonight with quite the fervor that he’s currently feeling.

But he shoves those thoughts down eagerly, telling himself that nothing bad is going to happen. Keith still has the pass, so even if they’re stopped and the monitor decides to make an ordeal out of it, it’s nothing that a quick trip down to the front desk can’t remedy easily enough.

He knows better than to allow his rampant nervousness to get the better of him now. He’s worked too hard to allow this opportunity to slip through clumsy, unskilled fingers.

Keith is pressed against him, tucked into the crook of his shoulder under his arm. He’s warm and soft, and he smells just as nice as he always does in Lance’s memories and frequent daydreams.

And he has no idea what’s in store for him now. He’s excited, Lance can tell, and so timid and quiet that even Lance is smart enough to realize that he’s a little bit nervous about this too.

It’ll be okay though. It’ll be worth it.

He’s run the simulation of tonight’s events over in his head more than enough times to finally feel comfortable accepting that nothing can go too terribly awry.

They reach the stairs a moment later, and he mourns the warmth of Keith’s body when he’s forced to untangle himself in order to walk more comfortably. Keith is trailing slightly behind him, drawing his hand slowly up the railing as he peers out around the room beneath them, slowly growing further and further away.

It’s an older building—charming in the way that Lance has always found old architecture to be. The stairs are lined with a flat, black-stained carpet. They creak under their shoes as they climb higher and higher towards the second floor. The entire building has a persistent scent of old wood, of rain and a strange, dusty aroma that perpetually tickles the back of Lance’s throat. It reminds him somewhat of the antique store, despite the fact that he’s been living here long enough that the charm has just about entirely worn away.

But he feels as though he’s seeing these rooms, these halls, and the doors that pass them as he heads towards his room, for the very first time. With fresh, inexperienced eyes. He’s looking at the signs hung about in the halls. The magazine racks between every few doors. He takes in the colors, the overbearing fluorescent lights. The smells, and the quiet thrumming of life in every closed-off dorm room.

He wonders what Keith must think of this place. He wonders if Keith finds the atmosphere around here nearly as romantic as Lance himself does.

When he’d come here on the very first day, at the beginning of the semester, nearly two months ago now, when himself and Hunk had lugged their bags up the stairs, rounded the corner, and searched the numbers on every door in search of their room, he’d felt as though he was living in some kind of Hollywood sitcom. He’d felt like a stereotypical college kid—like his life was finally going to begin. Like his world would soon be nothing but cramming for exams, staying up late at every elite, exciting new party. Like the time that he’d spend here would fly by at record speed, and he’d return home in the winter with so many fantastic stories about dorm life that he wouldn’t have the chance to tell all of them before he had to leave for the next semester in the Spring.

It hadn’t gone nearly as smoothly as that, and his days had been filled with more studying, at first, than fun.

But when he looks back over these last couple months, he wonders if maybe this is better. If maybe, he won’t have so much to say when he goes back home, but the stories that he’ll have to tell will be far more meaningful than any keggers or colorful, late-night adventures.

He wonders if he might sound more mature to his parents anyway, if he admits that his grades have steadily started going up, since he’d found himself a good reason to snag a nice job after graduation.

If he told them that he’s been eating more healthy food, because of Keith’s discount at the Deli, and the sorts of snacks that a health nut like Shiro brings home for the two of them when Lance comes over to visit.

If he were to tell them that he’s been exercising more, riding his bike almost everywhere, even taking yoga classes (if he stretches the meaning a little, sure, his bi-weekly yoga sessions with Keith could definitely sound like a convincing enough class) to simmer down during the stress of midterms and the anxiety of cramming three last-minute essays into one night. They might be more proud of him if they knew that he’s slowly beginning to piece his life together, that he’s growing out of some of his more childish habits and becoming the responsible adult that they’ve always hoped that he could someday be. And maybe, if they were to realize the cause of this sudden development, they might even decide that Keith is a positive influence, and immediately accept him into their family with open arms. 

Keith slips his hand into Lance’s, and for once, it isn’t something that surprises him. He smiles then, craning his neck to send Keith a tender look—to tell him silently that he appreciates Keith’s need for contact no matter where they are.

There was a time, just a month ago, when even the idea of touching Keith like this would have thrown him so off-kilter that he wouldn’t have been able to think straight.

There was a time, all the way at the beginning of the semester, when even the mere thought of talking to Keith would have made him so tongue tied and silly that it would have been impossible to drag his head back down from the clouds.

But now he’s talking to Keith, he’s telling him quietly about his dorm, about the silly posters, about the events advertised on the bulletin board just in front of the snack room. He’s lowering his voice when they sneak by the monitor’s office, bagging on the guy for being too straight-laced and seemingly having no understanding of the word “fun”.

He’s holding Keith’s hand, and he’s leading him toward another surprise that, hopefully, will strengthen their relationship even further.

Keith is trembling, ever so slightly. Lance can tell that he’s growing only more nervous. And despite the words of encouragement that he’s still repeating like a mantra in his thoughts, he’s still nervous too.

He’s never had another person in his room before—aside from Hunk and Pidge, aside from the room monitor who, if he’s totally honest with himself, would be even more horrifying to see in his room tonight than Keith. At least Keith won’t give him another citation for redecorating his room without filling out the proper paperwork. At least Keith won’t bang on the door early enough in the morning that he startles both Hunk and Lance awake.

At the very least, the sort of fear that the idea of Keith seeing his room evokes is more pleasant—more invigorating than pure, unadulterated terror.

Compared to that guy, inviting Keith in feels like nothing short of a dream.

So he focuses instead on that thought, to calm his nerves. And to put things into perspective enough that he doesn’t immediately start regretting ever thinking that this was a good idea.

He’s thankful that it’s Keith and not some asshole who writes them a citation if even a speck of dust is out of place. It’s Keith and not Pidge, patronizing his taste in movies again. It’s Keith and not anyone in Keith’s family—which is a thought so ridiculous that he can’t help but laugh.

He can’t imagine how Shiro would look cramped up in a bedroom so small that even Lance has trouble moving around sometimes. The hulking mass of him alone would be so out of place there, and the idea of it reminds Lance of when he was a kid. When he used to play with his older sister’s dollhouse with his action figures—but the men in army uniforms were always too oversized. Always too rugged and rippled with jagged muscle to look natural among the pastel floral patterns of the wallpaper and the carpet.

And Shiro’s dad, exactly the same. A giant crushing Lance’s minuscule furniture under clumsy feet. Men so big and broad that maybe they’d have trouble even fitting through the narrow doorways.

The mental picture of both Shirogane junior and senior getting stuck in the threshold of his room is funny enough that he snorts a louder, less dignified laugh. It startles Keith enough that he jerks around—blanched in his worry, his eyes wide and rounded—and, for whatever reason, this makes Lance laugh even harder.

Keith is immediately offended, he can tell, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to continue cackling like a madman in the middle of a dimly lit, barren hallway until Keith either punches him for being rude or gets too spooked and runs out of the building, before they even have a chance to find his room.

“I-I’m sorry,” he says, stopping to wipe a hand over his face, sobering with a quickness that impresses even himself, “I just thought of something really stupid, s-sorry.”

Keith sends him a perplexed look—raising one brow and puffing out his bottom lip. Lance tugs him forward then, eager not to dally longer than he has to, as he fumbles over the right explanation for all of the thoughts currently circling around in his brain.

Shiro in some bizarre G.I. Joe mock-up of an outfit—crammed into his dorm room, so big and brawny and hopelessly stuck that he’s reminiscent of spam sealed in a tin can. His father, trapped in his and Hunk’s shared bathroom. The room monitor struggling to squeeze himself in too, hurriedly scribbling down a dozen or so citations for keeping giant men locked up in his room without a pass, unapproved visitation from beefy behemoths, unlawful entrapment of intimidating Adonises.

Not a single speck of this thought process is even remotely sane enough to tell Keith. So, instead, his brain does what it always does.

It feeds him words that barely makes sense, and he grapples with the act of actually saying them in an order that might convince Keith that he isn’t totally hopeless.

“I was just thinking, uh… how happy I am that you’re the only guest coming over tonight, I guess. Like, that we’re actually gonna be… _ alone _ .”

It ends up coming out just as perverted as he was hoping that it wouldn’t, and Keith’s cheeks instantly darken a few shades of scarlet. His grip tightens slightly on Lance’s hand, his fingers trembling and his shoulders rounding forward as they finally begin to close in on Lance’s dorm room door.

As Lance fumbles around in his pocket with his free hand, searching for his keys, Keith huddles slightly closer. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the black blob of Keith’s hair moving in short, jerking motions back and forth, as though he’s keeping lookout behind them, on both ends of the hall.

As though, for whatever reason, he shares Lance’s sudden, inexplicable notion that they’re doing something that they aren’t supposed to.  

Lance knows that his parents never had a problem with him bringing girls over to hang out after school or on the weekends, not since he was a kid. But he also knows that he never managed to bring a single girl over but Pidge—who from a very young age had made it abundantly clear that she had no interest in Lance’s romantic wiles, even if he’d ever thought to try them on her either. He shudders at the mere thought of it, and extinguished that from his brain at rapid speed.

He’s reminded, for a moment, of the messages that Keith had dared him to send to Pidge. He thinks about how she hadn’t allowed him to live that down for weeks—and still hasn’t, really, even if she’s calmed down a lot after the initial burst of jokes and jabs about it.

_ “If you’re so in love with me, you should buy me some ice cream on your way home from work.” _

_ “I thought you were my Prince Charming, Lance! Would my Prince Charming really sit here and try to tell me that Sleepless in Seattle is better than Ghost in the Machine? No Prince Charming of mine has that poor of taste _ !”

_ “Haven’t you heard, Hunk? Lance likes it when I’m mean to him! So obviously he just wants me to do it more!” _

His skin crawls even thinking about it, so, for the sake of his own sanity, he retraces his steps back to the original train of thought—as he continues fiddling with his key in the door.

Everywhere around him, there seems to be a rusted keyhole needing to be replaced. He wonders if someday, Hunk isn’t going to be in the room to open the door from the other side once he comes home later in the evening, and if maybe, he’ll be calling Keith and begging him to let him stay the night.

He shakes his head. The thought of that still feels so wrong.

And he still feels, despite everything, as though he’s being particularly bad now, just thinking about pulling Keith inside and closing the door behind them.

But his parents, he knows, hadn’t had a problem with him having male or female friends. They’d always made it clear that they would be happy if he was happy, and that any personal decision that he made that wasn’t immediately dangerous, they’d be more than willing to support. They weren’t the sort of family that consistently pried into his business, and they weren’t the sort of people to assume that any friend that he wanted to bring home was someone who he felt a romantic inclination towards.

His mom would tell him, every so often, that he could tell her anything. And now he knows that she meant it. He might have, once upon a time, kept secrets that would always grow far too large to stay hidden for long. Like the prank caught on tape. Like the bullying.

Like his gigantic, undeniable crush on Keith.

But he’d never had the opportunity to test those potential girlfriend or boyfriend waters with either of his parents. He isn’t sure, even now, if they’d have any qualms against him inviting Keith, alone, into his room right now.

And he definitely has no clue about the Shiroganes—even if he can’t imagine that parents who trust their older son alone at home with their only-slightly-younger son for long stretches of time would reasonably believe that they didn’t have anything wild going on behind their backs.

He wonders if he should have asked Keith about this a long time ago. If maybe he should have considered that perhaps, Keith has never been alone with a crush either.

If maybe this is the first time for both of them, and Keith, for once, is just ill equipped to handle this and just as painfully, embarrassingly lost as Lance is.

On what feels like a tenth try, he pushes the key into the lock. It clicks as it turns. Keith takes another careful step towards him.

Through the door, even before he pushes it open, he can hear music. He can feel the vibrations of it through the lifeless, trampled carpet on the floor—through the bottoms of his sneakers all the way up into his knees. And he wonders if Keith hears it too. He wonders if Keith has any idea what in the world Lance has in store for him tonight.

And he wonders if this was a good idea after all.

If maybe he should have settled for something that he could have carried into the Shiroganes’ home in a paper-wrapped box, or a small bag.

If maybe Keith isn’t actually more about the actions, and less about physical mementos.

If maybe, like most people, Lance imagines, Keith might have preferred something that he could actually keep over just another lousy memory to add to their already overflowing collection.

It’s too late to turn back now, and he can already sense that Keith is growing more worried and impatient behind him.

“Is the door stuck?”

Lance shakes his head.

“N-no, no... uh, sorry, I’m—I’m just nervous.”

Keith places his free hand between Lance’s shoulder blades.

“It’s fine,” he says quietly, quick and short, “I’m sure this place is really cool during the daytime, but this hall is kind of giving me the creeps right now.”

It’s enough to compel Lance to move forward. It’s enough to give him the strength to push open the door.

He leads Keith inside, just as the record player ends one song and lifts the needle to start the next. Keith jerks at the scratch of it. He hesitates just as Lance attempts to tug him over the threshold.

And Lance isn’t entirely sure why, at first. If it’s the idea that he’s finally going to be stepping into his boyfriend’s bedroom for the very first time, or if it’s the elaborate display in front of him.

If it’s the tarps pinned to the ceiling and hanging over the walls—hiding the beds and his and Hunk’s shared desk—giving the room the illusion of a thick, black wall of night.

If it’s the fairy lights hanging down, or the small globe in the center of the room, casting a speckled myriad of stars over the tarps, emulating the clear, cloudless black skies of a night so many months past.

If maybe, it’s the voice of the woman on the record player—one of Lance’s favorite songs, he’s excited to realize. Her languid voice booming out into the quiet, like the pink glow of the neon sign casting light onto the floor. Through the thick of the silence, over the small table set up in the center of the room. The fake candles flickering with false flames. The silly little glitter adorned sign—”Convenience Store”, as though he couldn’t have been any more obvious what he was trying to reference.

_ ‘Sweet dreams, till sunbeams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you. But in your dreams, whatever they may be—dream a little dream of me.’ _

He finally manages to pull Keith into the room. He takes a moment to close the door behind them.

The various lights about the room are reflecting in Keith’s eyes—just how Lance remembered, from the first time that he walked into Keith’s room. His mouth is set in a straight, firm line. His shoulders are trembling now, his hand in Lance’s so damp with sweat that it nearly slips off.

Lance isn’t entirely sure what to call the emotion that he sees resting Keith’s face now—what to make of the dampness in his eyes, the hot color on his cheeks.

But when Keith turns to him, he feels a ripple of something overpowering, something warm and heavy that melts the marrow in his bones, makes him weak in the knees, and buries his tongue so deep into his throat that he couldn’t speak now even if he knew what to say.

“It’s beautiful,” Keith says quietly, just between the lull of lyrics into instrumentals, as though that verse was made entirely for this moment—as though everything in the entire universe before now was only leading up to this, as though history itself was forged just so he could find himself staring at the play of the lights twinkling in Keith’s damp eyes, “It’s—it’s like that night. The… the night when we left Shiro’s party. It’s supposed to be the curb in front of the convenience store, right?”

Lance smiles—so wide and so overwhelmed with emotion that he feels lightheaded. Of course Keith remembers that. Of course he would make the connection.

Of course, after all of Lance’s time spent worrying, it really did mean just as much to him.

“I—” Lance pauses to clear his throat, to find a voice that’s far less high pitched and meek, “I wanted to… to show you how important that was to me. You know, like… the beginning of everything. And I thought—you know, my parents always loved dancing. So I thought maybe… if you wanted to… we could dance.”

“And have a second dinner?” Keith’s voice hitches, despite the fact that he’s grinning now. His eyes are so wet that Lance is surprised that no tears break over the levy of his bottom lids and streak down his cheeks to his chin.

He tries his best not to say anything about it, even if he doesn’t entirely understand it. He only ushers Keith forward, only draws the two of them nearer together.

And Keith laughs openly when they come close enough that he can see what Lance has set on the plates—gummy worms, and two jumbo slushies covered in so much condensation that Lance is sure that they’re completely melted by now.

“I haven’t even finished the candy that you gave me last time yet,” Keith says, dragging his eyes slowly from the table back up to Lance’s face, “that’s another two pound bag, isn’t it?”

Lance pushes his laughter out of him with a shaky breath through his nostrils, rubbing at his heated cheeks with one hand as the other drops slowly from Keith’s shoulder. He isn’t sure what to say for a moment, in the face of Keith smiling so wide—so big and uninhibited with such glassy eyes—and for awhile, they only stand together in silence, wrapped in the crackling of the record player as Doris Day continues on through the rest of the song.

_ “Stars fading, but I linger on, dear, still craving your kiss. I’m longing to linger ‘till dawn, dear. Just saying this.” _

Keith turns then, abruptly enough that Lance is caught off-guard by it. He draws nearer to the record player, then swivels over to the neon sign—runs his fingers of the poster board so lightly, but Lance can still see the tiny pieces of glitter clinging to his fingertips.

His shoulders continue to shake, ever-so gently. Lance can’t see his face now, but he concentrates on the way that he’s trembling, the steep lines of his shoulders dipping into his back. The stiffness of him, all pressed together, just like he was on the curb outside of the convenience store. Like he’s trying to be small again. Like he isn’t sure now how he’s supposed to feel.

And now, Lance isn’t sure now if this was the right thing to do.

He doesn’t know if maybe, somehow, he ended up stepping on Keith’s toes accidentally. Or if, perhaps, this is something entirely different.

Keith turns then, at a rate that Lance’s eyes take as slow motion. His brain tells him that time is surely running at the normal speed, but everything in this room, right now, as it always does in these moments with Keith, feels as though it’s inching along at a snail’s pace.

And Keith’s face, framed in the myriad of different colored lights against his translucent skin—his eyes so wide and dark, like black pools of night sky, reflecting the speckles of the fairy lights, red-rimmed and even wetter than they were just moments ago.

His teeth are straight and white, digging hard into his bottom lip. He quivers, slightly, desperately in a way that makes Lance want nothing more right now than to leap forward and wrap him up in his arms—but Lance’s legs are made of jelly, tethered down to the floor with the lead blocks of his feet. His arms are hanging uselessly at his sides. His throat is so tight that any words that he could hope to say right now are smothered in his windpipe.

Keith tells him, in a voice so much stronger than he currently looks, “No one has ever done anything like this for me before.”

And Lance knows two things for certain:

One, Keith cannot possibly be real. He’s perfect in every conceivable way. Even better than Lance used to fantasize that he was, before he knew him. So crafted from marble, so elegant and enchanting that even as he’s holding back tears, it’s somehow the most magnificent thing that Lance has ever witnessed in his entire life.

And, two, he will never, ever be able to stop doing these sorts of ridiculous things for Keith—not as long as he lives. Not as long as there’s anything in existence that could surprise Keith this much, that could peel away the layers that he’s so carefully crafted around himself. That could bare him now--so vulnerable and so obviously touched. Lance learns now, that he’s addicted to this sight of Keith. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to erase the image of Keith’s damp smile from his brain, even if he tried.

He can understand why the Shiroganes are so good to Keith. He can understand why they love him so dearly. He understands why Hunk and Pidge liked Keith immediately, why he, himself, was so smitten from the very beginning, just because of a silly, extra piece of cheese.

He steps closer, one shaky footfall at a time.

And with Keith in his arms, his head tucked against his shoulder and those trembling arms slowly wrapping around him—he finds his voice in all of the frustrating thickness in his throat.

“I did it because I love you,” he says, so even and quiet, so smooth that he almost can’t believe that these words are actually leaving his mouth, “I… I’m in love with you, Keith. And I want to make you happy, so… if that means doing crazy stuff like this all the time, well… so be it.”

Keith muffles a laugh against his chest, tipping his head back so he can gaze up into Lance’s eyes. And Lance feels himself so caught in them—like a fly in a spider’s web, like a mouse in a trap, like a boy, so hopelessly, helplessly in love that he can’t help but ignore everything inside of him that’s telling him that this has to be too good to be true.

“You don’t have to do anything crazy to make me happy. You already make me happy, like… all the time.”

Keith’s cheeks are so red when he says this that Lance can see it clearly, even in the dark.

But he doesn’t stop holding on, and neither of them can stop smiling.

The song fades out into silence. The record scratches as the pin raises, and soon enough, another low drawl of music begins filtering out around them.

He isn’t sure who starts swaying first, but it’s probably himself. He isn’t sure who twines their fingers together, but he thinks that this might have been Keith.

They’re dancing under a manufactured starlight. They’re tucked away, once again, in the distant memories of a night on the curb in front of the convenience store. Keith doesn’t say,  _ “I love you too” _ , and he doesn’t even seem to register that Lance just confessed to him at all.

But it’s a nice, quiet night. It’s so peaceful that he forgets all about his nervousness, the Shiroganes, or Hunk roughing it out on the floor between Pidge and her roommate’s beds.

He allows himself to be tangled up in Keith again—in his calloused hands, in the dark reflection of the lights in his eyes. In the soft tickle of his hair against Lance’s cheeks as he closes the small distance between their faces.

In his warm, soft lips.

And the music, fading out and in, punctuating the sway of their hips, their small, tentative kisses. Keith’s fingers combing through his hair. The feeling of his waist under Lance’s palms.

To Lance, it’s a perfect night.

To Lance, it’s almost everything that Keith deserves.

 

* * *

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : So he never said that he loved you back? _

_**Hunk3141** : That’s not a bad sign, Pidge! Sometimes it takes some time. And Keith isn’t exactly the kind of person who would go around, you know… belting it out like Lance does. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : This is exactly why I didn’t tell you! I knew, after everything, that’s the one part that you’d focus on! But it’s not like he rejected me! He just… didn’t say it back. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : And that’s totally fine, okay?! Like Hunk said, he just needs a little bit of time! _

_**Hunk3141** : Maybe he’s been writing it in cheese slices on all of your sandwiches and you just haven’t noticed it yet. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Maybe… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Thanks, Hunk. It already takes him like fifteen years to finish his food. Now it’s going to take even longer! He’s going to have to open up all of his sandwiches and inspect them, Keith’s going to start regretting dating him—it will be society in collapse! All because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut! _

_**Hunk3141** : I’m sorry, okay! Lance, I was just kidding! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : No, you know what, Hunk? Maybe you’re onto something! Maybe he just didn’t say it then because he already had a secret, romantic plan to confess! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I gotta go! But thanks, guys, really! Maybe there really is something about the cheese this time! Maybe that’s why he always takes so long to make my food! _

 

_ —-LadiesLoveLance has left the chat—- _

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh, no. Hunk! _

_**Hunk3141** : Lance! I didn’t mean it! _

_**Hunk3141** : Lance! Seriously! If you check in later, PLEASE don’t go digging around in your sandwiches! That’s really, really, really, weird! _

_**Hunk3141** : Lance! I’m not kidding! I know Keith has been pretty forgiving so far, but there are some lines that you really shouldn’t cross! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Happy Friday! You might have noticed this week that the chapter count on this story is set at 25 (if not, you’re noticing now, I’m sure!). Which, I’m so sad… but also very excited to say is not a fluke. We’re drawing very close to the end now, and I’m honestly so humbled and surprised to see how far this story has come! At the very beginning, I called this story “a small project”, and now, months later, I have to take a moment to laugh at myself for ever thinking that this project wouldn’t be longer than five chapters. Anyway, we still have a few weeks left, so how better to enjoy them by reading yet another longer-than-average cheese chapter?
> 
> That being said, this week’s cheese is the favorite of **Sam_sgh**! Thank you so much for sharing that with me! I also wanted to take a moment to mention that a few other people pointed out that past cheese titles were also their favorites, so thank you to **epiproctan** (for mozzarella) and **stormie2817** (for pepperjack and monterey jack)! 
> 
> So, with these notes already becoming so terribly long, I’ll just say, once again, thank you so much for reading! See you guys again next week!


	23. Comté

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: [message deleted]

From the craft store that Shiro’s mom frequently visits, the small collection of supplies that Keith had meekly requested supposedly hadn’t been too expensive.

_ “Are you making a poster for the Deli?”  _ Shiro’s mom had asked, in an innocent, albeit  _ leading _ way, that clued Keith in immediately to the idea that maybe she’d already known, even back then, that he absolutely had no intention of telling her what all of the junk scribbled messily on a stray piece of notebook paper was actually for.

But she hadn’t pried too terribly much, and she hadn’t told Shiro or his father either. That level of discretion is frankly more than what he feels as though he could reasonably ask from her, or anyone else, anymore. After everything that he’s put them through over the last two years, Keith doesn’t feel as though he has the room to ask for much of anything.

He takes a moment to pause, to set down his projects and appreciate how willing she’d been to buy these things for him with so little explanation.

And to wonder, helplessly, if he’ll ever be a good enough person that he might be able to repay everyone for all of the wonderful things that they’ve done for him, when surely, he’s only made things difficult for them in return.

There’s Allura, who never complains when he takes extra time on his breaks. Who covers for him when he gets frantic text messages from Lance at random intervals, that generally turn out to be nothing. Who stays over so he can leave a little bit earlier to pick up Lance from work, now that it’s started snowing more frequently, and his bike consistently gets frozen to the rack.

There’s Shiro, who he feels can’t be contained in one single train of thought. He’s done too much by now. He’s piled up these favors so terribly high into the sky that Keith feels hopeless about the mere prospect of ever being able to articulate how much it means to him. But through and through, he’s been reliable and he’s been patient. Keith imagines that it must not have been easy to accept someone so old into his family so late in life. Shiro was still in college when Keith moved in with them. He was still finding himself, growing more comfortably into his adult skin.

And there wasn’t a good reason for him to take Keith under his wing. No one would have blamed him for thinking that his parents had lost their minds when they adopted some random seventeen year old, who surely seemed like more trouble than he was worth.

From the very first day that they met, Shiro had welcomed him with open arms. He still doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t know why Shiro kept trying, no matter how many times Keith pushed him away.

But he’s happy, now, that Shiro never gave up on him. He’s thankful, privately, for all of the good things that have happened since he moved here.

And he understands it, more than he’d let on at the time, when Lance had told him about the fresher air here. About feeling, for the first time in a long time, as though he’s able to take a big gulp of clean oxygen—far away from all of the ugly memories resting in his past. Finally, after so much blind scrambling for meaning, he feels as though he can understand what it means to just be  _ normal _ , and happy, and content.

And he knows that he owes this to Shiro’s parents. He’s just beginning to accept that they might not have ulterior motives, that somehow, this won’t end up being just as disappointing as every other false hope before it. Maybe, like Shiro, they’re just good people.

Maybe, like everyone else who he’s met since he moved here, they don’t need a reason to be kind. They just are. They just want to put something positive into the world. They just want to help him find his footing in a life that he still isn’t sure if he’ll ever feel completely comfortable in.

But he thinks that he’ll start with Lance, because he knows, deep down, that every positive change in his life has been sparked from that single, minuscule flame. That every urge of his to pay it forward now was only inspired by a person so selfless and unknowingly perfect that he seriously hadn’t even seemed the least bit taken aback that Keith was too chickenshit to tell him that he loved him too, despite the lengths that Lance had went to confess in the first place.

He still doesn’t really understand what Lance sees in him.

He doesn’t know what Lance is getting out of about any of this.

But the months have rolled out before them, and even now, at the fresh, freezing head of December, just a few days before Lance is scheduled to go home for winter break, Lance still hasn’t grown bored of him or lost interest.

And that, alone, is the most perplexing aspect any of this.

He knows that Shiro’s had a few girlfriends in his life. He’s dated casually, dated more seriously, dated girls who cried a lot and girls who got mad easily. And he’s dated nice girls who Keith thought might stick around for a lot longer than they actually ended up sticking around—who broke up with Shiro for ex boyfriends, or because they were moving far away. Who broke up over petty fights, or even for, what seemed to Keith, to be no good reason at all.

He’d never understood relationships, from the standpoint of someone on the outside, looking in. He hadn’t understood at the time what compelled another person to seek anything externally—be it comfort, or love, or any of the commodities that he’d convinced himself a long time ago that he could get for himself just fine, on his own.

And he hadn’t really thought of it before—why he didn’t seem to like girls, why he didn’t seem to like guys, why he didn’t seem to like anyone until that slack-jawed little weirdo first gaped at him from the other side of the Deli counter, as though Keith was some kind of hidden treasure unearthed by archaeologists for the first time in billions of years.

Lance had been nothing more than a mystery back then. Just a strange happening at a generally boring job. He was the oddball who popped in every few days, ordered the same sandwich, and looked at Keith in such a peculiar way that frequently, Keith would sneak into the back room after their transactions just to check his reflection for blemishes.

It hadn’t occurred to him that Lance was attracted to him back then, no matter how many times Shiro would joke about it. It didn’t seem realistic. It wasn’t even a blip on Keith’s radar. To Keith, at the time, there must have been something else going on. There must have been a more reasonable explanation.

And so, very gradually, Keith became curious about Lance.

The rest is basically history, he thinks, because he’d fallen down a rabbit hole of confusing, albeit frustratingly charming missteps and shocking, forward confessions. He’d witnessed how patient Lance could be, how wholly he embraced the less flattering parts of himself. How he seemed as though he wasn’t capable of holding a grudge against anyone—even those awful people from his past. Even Keith, himself, when he’d gotten too nervous and too defensive, over small misunderstandings that he imagines a more capable person wouldn’t have taken so personally.

He’d taken his time to get to know Keith without judging him. He’s seemed, all this time, as though he’d even had the gall to enjoy it. Keith had felt at odds with him, for a long time. He’d been defensive. He hadn’t trusted that a person like Lance—endearing and handsome, funny, likable, and oh-so normal—would give him the time of day without some kind of motivation.

And he feels foolish now, in hindsight. But even as he was climbing onto the back of Lance’s bike for the first time, and trusting him to navigate the two of them somewhere far away without getting lost, he’d been waiting for the first sign that something was amiss, so he could finally understand what Lance wanted from him and move on with his life.

That moment had never come.

But he had realized that night, as Lance bared himself and listened so patiently to his own embarrassing stories, that he was definitely capable of falling very, very hard for the right person.

He forces himself to stop that train of thought there. His heart is pounding in his chest now. His cheeks feel far too hot.

It’s not fair that Lance can affect him like this when he isn’t even around. It’s frustrating and abnormal, and he still can’t figure out if he wants to berate Lance for this, or if he’d rather kiss him instead.

He knows the answer to that, if he’s honest with himself.

But instead of dwelling on it, he shakes those thoughts out of his head, and concentrates on the task at hand.

Shiro’s mom bought him safety scissors. He grits his teeth as they crease the paper before actually making a clean cut. She means well, he knows this, but perhaps Lance is the first person who he’s met in a very long time who didn’t have some kind of preconceived notion of who he was before he got to know him.

Maybe Lance, he thinks, is the only person who he’s interacted with in a very long time who could get to know him without any biases hanging like dark rain clouds over their budding relationship.

And maybe that’s why everything has went so smoothly so far. Because Lance doesn’t look nervous when he pulls one of the knives from the block while cooking. He doesn’t regard him as a loose cannon, just waiting for the first opportunity to go off.

Lance treats him like he’s a normal person, who’s never been too angry or too loud. Sometimes, even still, Keith can’t shake the idea that everyone around him is just biding their time until his next inexplicable freak out, even though he hasn’t broken anything in over a year.

He’s been doing a lot better lately—with therapy, with creative and physical outlets. With a loving boyfriend who doesn’t seem to think that anything about him is odd. With a family that seems to accept him, even if sometimes he still manages to surprise them.

He used to run away lot when he was younger. His case worker flagged him as a “flight risk”—cautioned new foster parents to house him in a room upstairs, somewhere where they could keep an eye on him. He’d always wondered what he’d tell them if they asked him why he ran. He always wondered what sort description he could put to the feelings inside of him—that he wanted to be free of this life, of these titles and the words that bound him. He didn’t want to be an orphan anymore. He didn’t want to be a “flight risk”. He didn’t want to be troublesome, or angry, explosive, or hard to contain. He wanted to be Keith—to be a normal, smiling kid. To be someone who families wanted to adopt, someone who a potential parent could bring home for good.

He was seeking something out in the black of the night, with a desperation that was the only thing fueling him to run miles and miles until his knees buckled beneath him, and his lungs ached with an angry, fiery throbbing.

He’d wanted more from life than a helpless countdown to his eighteenth birthday. Than dread and the hopelessness. The gradual realization that the longer he sat around in a numb, directionless life, the closer he was getting to the day that he’d age out of the foster care system.

And then, there would be no one left to burden themselves with him. He’d be alone, like when his father left. Like when each individual parent wiped their hands of him and slipped soundlessly out of the apartment in the middle of the night.

These feelings had grown like ivy inside of him—black and gnarled, tangling around his rib bones, stabbing into his heart. He’d felt overgrown inside, smothered and encapsulated in his own miserable, desperate self-pity. The Shiroganes had plucked him like this, ripe with anger, out of a dead-end life and replaced him here.

It wasn’t their fault. They meant well.

But he isn’t sure if they could ever understand it. How relocating didn’t kill the ivy. How, for a long time, that contempt only continued to grow within him.

He knows that Lance is the type of person who would ask him why he used to run away.

He knows that Lance cares more about the _ ‘why’ _ s than the  _ ‘what’ _ s of what happened.

But he doesn’t want Lance to know that side of him. He wants Lance to know the new him—who wants to stick around. Who wants to  _ be better _ . Who finally, after all this time, wants nothing more than to make as many lasting connections with the people who love him as he possibly can.

Time isn’t a hopeless dribble of days, slowly leading him to loneliness anymore. The Shiroganes, he knows, saved him from whatever fate he’d spent so many years dreading.

But now, when he finally has the chance, and the unique ability to do whatever he wants with his life, he still isn’t comfortable enough with the prospect of it to actually do _ anything _ .

He’d allowed himself to settle in, but he was always eased up, coiled and ready to bolt. He’d wasted two years doing nothing but working at the Deli. He’d been careful never to get too comfortable, in fear that maybe, one day, he’d leave this place and lose everything that he could have potentially built here.

But Lance, that night in front of the convenience store, had spoken to him as though it was perfectly reasonable to be confused and scared. Maybe he hadn’t realized it at the time. Maybe he hadn’t understood that those simple words had effectively pulled away the ivy by the roots, and left Keith, for the first time, free to take a deep breath without it.

_ “Then you should go to college. Who cares if the Shiroganes want you to or not? If you want to do it, do it for you.” _

He shakes his head, setting down the scissors for a moment to rearrange the pile of shapes that he’s already cut out of the paper. He hasn’t opened the glitter yet, and he isn’t exactly looking forward to that part of this project either.

But he imagines that Lance has a love for sparkly, flashy things, given how much glittery nonsense he’d dumped on the various decorations in his dorm room on Keith’s birthday. He’d gotten home late that night, strung out emotionally, physically exhausted, so elated and on top of the world that he hadn’t thought about what he’d tell Shiro’s parents if they were awake when he got back.

The first thing that they’d noticed was the glitter, everywhere. He hadn’t even realized how much of it had clung to his clothes until Shiro’s mom had joked about it.

_ “I guess that went well, didn’t it? You’re so radiant that you’re sparkling!” _

Lance, he thinks, is a complicated person. He’s easily swayed by simple words, by small gestures. But there’s something about him that’s deeper and harder to understand. There’s a wisdom inside of him that Keith feels, even now, he’s just barely scratched the surface of.

And after three months of being together, he still can’t wrap his head around a person like Lance. He still isn’t entirely sure what Lance wants from him—what he sees in him. What his goals are for a relationship like this, and how he can give so freely without expecting much of anything in return.

He hadn’t been upset when Keith hadn’t told him that he loved him too. He hadn't asked for a reason why. He hadn’t seemed to be hurt by it.

And Keith knows that he couldn’t have possibly known that Keith had bigger plans.

That, for once in his life, he wanted to give back even an ounce of the kindness that someone else had shown him.

His phone buzzes, but Keith ignores it for a moment. It’s a Monday morning, just a few hours before his shift starts at the Deli. Shiro is at work already, Lance is in class. He isn’t sure when Allura will come in to start her shift, but he knows better than to think that she’d have anything to text him about at this hour.

So he puts it off, because even on the best days, when he doesn’t have anything better to do, he doesn’t like to text. And if it’s Lance asking for a “pick-me-up” selfie, he’d rather have some time to clean the glue out of his hair before he snaps a photo of himself anyway.

He’s cut out enough shapes by now. His back aches, and his fingers already feel cramped. He’s been at this for hours. At the bottom of the bed, when he stretches his legs, his toes bump against the flat cardboard of the box that he still needs to fold into place.

He draws in a deep sigh, pushing it slowly out of his nose. He thinks about Lance’s sweet smile—about how warm and soft his hands are, and his lips, and his smooth hair when Keith garners the nerve to touch it. He thinks about how Lance is handsome even when he isn’t trying—how he’s so handsome that Keith sometimes finds himself too lost in thought and admiration to say anything for a far too long. He thinks about how he never says what he wants to, when Lance turns those captivating eyes on him—and he thinks about the pool water humming loudly outside in the yard. How the glow of it had sparkled against Lance’s skin, how the reflection had cast waves in the dark shadows of Lance’s eyes the night that Lance had come to that party.

How Keith had known, in that moment, that Shiro was right all along.

For the first time in his life, Keith had been attracted to someone. And no matter how desperately his brain had tried to convince him that trusting a stranger was a bad idea, he’d kept coming back for more.

And Lance hadn’t proven him wrong—still hasn’t, after so much time has passed. Lance has only rewarded him so far for opening up, for being vulnerable, and for risking making a fool out of himself at every turn.

He can’t help but smile a little at the thought of it—at all of those horrible moments when he’d fumbled, when he’d allowed himself to get huffy and overreact when he’d meant to be soft. When he should have been more gentle, as Lance had been.

But Lance hadn’t misunderstood him. He hadn’t shirked away. He’d seemed, at the time, to almost revel in the challenge of it—in cracking a nut as impenetrable as Keith. In getting close to a person who seemed very adamant to stay as far away as possible.

Keith knows that he must have sent out a lot of mixed signals. He knows that, to this day, he isn’t very good at saying what he means.

And he doesn’t know why Lance cares enough to put up with it, what he could possibly get out of this relationship, with such a difficult brick wall of a person.

But he wants to do something nice, just once. He wants to show Lance, loud and clear, that he cares just as much as Lance does. That all of this means just as much to him as it should.

This idea of his isn’t clever or creative or cute—not in the way that Lance’s grandiose gestures have been thus far. He isn’t very good at these things, at being romantic. At performing these grand, touching gestures with the ease that Lance always seems to have at times like this.

But he wants to try it, at least.

Even if Lance laughs at him, and even if he secretly thinks that it’s dumb, the thought of trying won’t stop thrumming inside of Keith’s head.

Finally, he checks his phone.

**Shiro 9:45 A.M** .: I still can’t find Lance on Facebook. Do you think he still has me blocked?

**Me 10:04 A.M** .: He’s probably not going to unblock you.

**Shiro 10:07 A.M.** : Do you think you can change his mind? It’s going to be kind of embarrassing if I can’t tag him in the pictures that I take at your wedding.

**Me 10:08 A.M.** : That’s not funny.

**Me 10:08 A.M.** : If I had an account, I’d block you too.

**Shiro 10:10 A.M.** : Keith, come on! Don’t be like that, I was just joking! But can you bring it up to him casually? You know, ‘Hey, you should add my brother on Facebook! He has some really cool posts that I think you’d like to see!’

**Shiro 10:11 A.M.** : If not, I might have to resort to extreme bribes. I’ll send him a letter written in newspaper clippings, Keith. It’ll say, “If you want to see the pictures that I have of Keith sunbathing in his swimming suit, unblock Takashi Shirogane on Facebook within twenty-four hours.” Or maybe even, “I know which horror movies still scare Keith. If you want to know what to play during your next date so he wants to cuddle more, unblock Takashi Shirogane ASAP.”

**Me 10:15 A.M.** : How about, “If you don’t stop texting me about this, I’m going to tell him to keep you blocked forever.”

**Shiro 10:16 A.M.** : :(

**Me 10:20 A.M.** : I’ll tell him later, okay? Just stop talking about him like he’d actually wanna buy some gross pictures or weird information about me. He’s not like that.

**Shiro 10:25 A.M.** : He’s a good guy, Keith, but you and I both know that he would take me up on that offer in a heartbeat.

With a huff, Keith tosses his phone across the bed. It buzzes once more, but he doesn’t have the patience right now to continue his conversation with Shiro. He’s lived with Shiro long enough to finally realize that he’s teasing—as opposed to even just a year ago, when he’d be up in arms about an interaction like this until Shiro finally managed to calm him down and explain—but he needs to focus on the task at hand.

He takes a moment to eye the wide variety of multi-colored markers that Shiro’s mother picked up for him from the craft store. He knows that Lance likes blue, but he imagines that too much of it might look overwhelming if he uses it for everything. He tries to remember what his art instructor said about complementary colors. He tries to hone the energy of the women in his class who seem to have a firmer grasp on these sorts of things than he does.

He’d never thought that a creative hobby was something that would be of any use to him. For the majority of his life, he chose to tune out any information that various art teachers and case workers tried to teach him about arts and crafts. He’s always been too bored with it, too impatient to sit down and see such a menial task through to the end.

He can’t imagine being the sort of person who could write a novel, or paint a masterpiece. He doesn’t think that he’d ever have enough to say to fill an entire book—or that he’d see anything so beautiful that it deserved to be immortalized on canvas, by his own hand.

But Lance, he thinks, is gorgeous. And maybe he could find all of the right words to say, if he were describing him to someone else. Maybe he can understand those chatterbox writers, just a bit, when he’s considering all of the different ways that he could express his love for Lance’s smile.

And maybe, now, he’s dabbling in color theory, and trying his clumsy hands at art. Because of Lance, he thinks. For only Lance’s benefit.

He doesn’t know how he feels about any of this. How he feels about the mere idea that Lance could inspire this kind of change in him.

But across the room, sitting innocuously on his desk next to the closed lid of his laptop, there’s a pile of papers—only halfway filled out. He’ll finish them after work today, he knows. Before he steels himself for a long night of finishing this silly, messy project.

They’re registration forms for college. Shiro’s mom was in tears when he’d told her that he finally wanted to go to school.

His father had asked why now, what changed?

And Shiro had clapped him on the back, boasted his excitement. He’d saved Keith from struggling through an explanation—as he always does, as he always is, so reliable. And far too good at being a supportive older brother for Keith’s own comfort.

_ “It’s just his time now, right? We’ve all noticed how much he’s been changing lately. I’m sure he’s just ready to do something new.” _

Shiro had that knowing grin on his face when he’d said it, but he hadn’t mentioned Lance at all.

But he knew, just as Keith knows.

It was Lance’s words, so many weeks ago, that had inspired him.

Lance doesn’t realize how special he is. He thinks the world of Keith, for reasons that Keith still can’t entirely fathom.

But he’s a good person, a selfless, gentle person. He’s the sort of person who leaves everyone better off than he found them. He’s the kind of person who heals the nicks in people’s hearts, without even knowing that they’re there.

Keith feels as though he’ll never live the same, now that Lance has touched him. He’ll never see the world through the same bitter, distrustful eyes. He’ll never be able to judge other people without considering their feelings, or the unique life that they might have lived beforehand.

He’ll never be able to tell himself that he can’t do anything without trying it first.

He’ll never be able to dislike himself, when he knows that someone like Lance could see so much good in him.

He owes Lance more than he could ever hope to repay him.

But he wants to try.

So slowly, carefully, he unscrews the lid of the glitter container.

 

* * *

 

_ —-A Stranger Has Requested to Join the Chat—- _

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : What in the world…? Has someone been giving out the link to this room? _

_**Hunk3141** : I haven’t, man! You and Lance are the only people around campus who I know, and Shay’s already a member, so… who would I invite? _

_**Shaylar-Quantity** : Perhaps Lance invited someone? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Just let them in, Pidge. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Do you know them, or…? _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Just let them in. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You’re definitely not making this needlessly terrifying or anything. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Just trust me on this, Pidge! Don’t be so weird about it! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Fine! But if this ends up being some kind of creep, I’m banning you right along with them! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Do you really think I’d invite a creep in here?! _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Well, you’re also a creep, so I think, if anyone is bringing other creeps in here, it’s you. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : But fine, fine! By all means, let’s invite the potential serial killer in here. Let’s just see how this goes because Lance wants to trust them. _

 

_ —Keith101693 has joined the chat— _

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I was right not to trust this! It IS a serial killer! Hunk, run! Save yourself! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : That’s not a polite way to greet a new member, Pidge! What the Hell?! _

_**Keith101693** : Lance sent me an invite. I didn’t know that I wasn’t supposed to join. _

_**Hunk3141** : No, no dude it’s fine! Pidge is just being difficult. You know how she is! Always has to give everyone a hard time, even when they didn’t do anything to deserve it. It’s totally cool! We’re happy to see you here! _

_**Shaylar-Quantity** : It’s very nice to meet you, Keith! My name is Shay. I’m Hunk’s girlfriend. _

_**Keith101693** : Nice to meet you too. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : So how did Lance force you in here, huh? Did he threaten to cry? Maybe… tell you that all of your science books would “mysteriously disappear” if you didn’t join a groupchat with him? _

_**Keith101693** : No. He just asked and I said I would. I don’t have any science books anyway. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : See, it’s totally okay! He wants to be here! _

_**Hunk3141** : Just don’t check the backlogs, Keith. Lance has talked about you a whoooole lot. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Hunk! Do you mind not giving him any crazy ideas?! Like, you know, reading a ton of embarrassing stuff that’s not even relevant anymore?! _

_**Keith101693** : It can’t possibly be any more embarrassing than that screen name, can it? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Holy shit! Get him, Keith! Tear him apart! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Hey! At least I took the time to make something creative! I didn’t just let the system put a bunch of random numbers after my name! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Anyway! I have to go! My shift’s starting soon. Please don’t put any strange ideas in Keith’s head while I’m gone… _

 

_ —-LadiesLoveLance has left the chat— _

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Later… loverboy. _

_**Hunk3141** : Pidge, you can’t be mean to him when he’s not even around to see it. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I can and I will. _

_**Keith101693** : Hey, can I… ask your opinions about something? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Is it about Lance? The answer is always extra cheese, Keith. You should know this by now. _

_**Hunk3141** : Of course, Keith! We’re always happy to help. _

_**Keith101693** : The semester is ending in a few days, right? _

_**Hunk3141** : Yeah, Lance and I are going to take the bus home together. You guys are meeting up the night before for one last date, right? _

_**Keith101693** : Yeah, it’s about that. I needed to know what you thought about this… thing that I wanted to do. _

_**Keith101693** : It’s kind of stupid… _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : If it’s from you, Lance is going to love it, Keith. _

_**Hunk3141** : Yeah, definitely! But… what is it? _

_**Keith101693** : You can’t laugh. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You have my word. Not even a peep from me! _

_**Shaylar-Quantity** : I’m sure it isn’t funny, Keith. Don’t worry, we won’t laugh! _

_**Keith101693** : Okay… well, I kind of put something together for him… _

_**Keith101693** : [message deleted] _

_**Keith101693** : [message deleted] _

_**Keith101693** : [message deleted] _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh my God… he’s going to love it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Happy Friday, once again! This chapter is the elusive “Keith Chapter”! Which ended up being a little bit heavier than I intended, but I think Keith just had a lot to say, haha!
> 
> I’d like to take a moment to give [**TLaw**](http://oneyedkaneking.tumblr.com/) a HUGE thank you for editing this chapter for me! I’ve been fairly busy lately, so that was a gigantic help. So I hope you guys can send her some good vibes, for sitting up with me at 3am and picking out all of the weird stuff that I glossed over while editing!
> 
> So this week, Comté is the favorite cheese of a lovely friend of mine, **Frankypoisson**! Thanks so much for sharing that with me, even though… you had no idea why I suddenly crashed into your inbox at 3am demanding to know your favorite cheese.   
>  Also, another shout out to **WriterRider** for telling me that their favorite is ricotta! 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! See you next week!


	24. BellaVitano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight’s Specials: Evening dates, goodbyes, and one medium sausage pizza.

Lance shoves his suitcase closed, clicking his tongue at the stray pieces of clothing poking out through the gap between both sides. He’s positive that everything fit just fine when his mom helped him pack at the beginning of the semester, and he can’t imagine that the few articles of clothing that he’s picked up since the school year started are nearly enough to overload even the extra bags that he brought here, just in case.

Hunk seems to be fairing a lot better—always organized, always so prepared, already neatly packed and ready to go since early yesterday afternoon. Lance had told himself that they had more time, it would be easy to do all of this at the last minute. He didn’t have that much to pack. But now he’s only midway done, and Hunk has been allowed all of this extra time to text Shay excitedly about their inevitable face-to-face meeting—while Lance stresses and rushes, trying desperately to keep his mind on packing instead of focusing, instead, on his very last date tonight with Keith.

At times like these, Lance almost can’t stand how neat and tidy Hunk is. How, almost to the point of being passive aggressive, Hunk always seems to be so much better at playing adult than Lance feels that he might ever be.

But Hunk had offered to help him pack too, he knows this. And he, forever determined that he’s more than capable of taking care of things on his own, had vehemently refused any assistance.

 _“Fine, fine, have it your way, man,”_ Hunk had told him, waving a hand in the air as though his motherly instinct hadn’t been screaming at him to jump up and fiddle with Lance’s things anyway. But one narrow-eyed glare from Lance was more than enough to keep him in place, and to make him act as though he couldn’t care less.

And so, for the last few hours, Hunk has been lying back on his bed, laughing at random intervals at the various messages that Shay is sending him—chatting with her and Pidge in their groupchat, and doing a very convincing job of pretending that he isn’t itching to help a clearly struggling Lance.

“Are you almost done?” Hunk asks, and it takes everything within Lance not to snap at him to mind his own business.

It’s not completely about the packing, Lance knows. It’s not because his bags are so stuffed that they’re ready to burst. It’s not because he’s sweaty and already sore. It’s not because Sal had given him a hard time for leaving, even though he’d put in his notice all the way back when he first hired on. It’s not because Rolo had made some offhanded comment about whether or not his position would still be open after his leave of absence, or how, despite how immaculate their room will look once they leave, he’s sure the monitor will still have something to complain about when they come back in the spring.

He knows, and he’s sure that Hunk also knows, that this is because of Keith.

No matter how many times he folds his clothes, or how many posters he pulls down, how many times he reorganizes his books, he can’t shake the realization that tonight will be the very last night that he’ll be able to see Keith easily. For over a month after tonight, if they ever want to talk, it’ll have to be through text. If he wants to see Keith, they’ll have to send pictures.

And if they want to meet up, it’s a three hour drive either way.

This single epiphany is enough to put a damper on even the more enjoyable aspects of going home for Christmas.

His mother had been ecstatic on the phone just a few hours ago. She’d asked him to talk to his young nephew soon after, as she’d corralled together his younger cousins so they could attend their church’s Wednesday night sermon. He’d talked to his nephew about kindergarten, about the glittery Christmas cards that he’d make in class.

 _“I made you one too,”_ his nephew had told him, in that shy, tentative voice so small that Lance had to turn the volume all the way up on his phone just to make it out, _“and I made one for your friend. Will you give it to him when you go back to school?”_

His _friend_. He’d laughed at the mere idea of calling Keith only his friend, after everything that they’ve been through together. But he’d understood that, at times, his nephew had admitted that he thought his parents were just friends too. He isn’t quite at the age to comprehend these things yet—unlike Lance himself, he thinks with a laugh, who had already planned out his dream wedding and drawn intricate diagrams all about it in preschool.

His parents still, to this day, won’t let him live that one down.

Privately, he’s thankful that it will probably be quite some time before Keith meets his family. The Shiroganes’ jokes had been bad enough. He’d already been mortified by their—loving, well-meaning, yes, but totally embarrassing—jabs about Keith’s apparently not-so private affections for him, and he isn’t sure if he’ll survive when his mom digs all of his old plans and the embarrassing photographs out of storage just to show Keith.

But that train of thought only reminds him of the distance that he’ll, very soon, be putting between himself and Keith. It only serves to remind him of the days and weeks, and the agonizing hours that he’ll spend picking at the mere scraps of texts and random selfies. The times that he’ll be so possessed by loneliness that he won’t be able to stand it—without Keith there, to hold his hand, to press those soft, warm lips against his and tell him something so simple yet profound that it will make all of this feel okay.

He already misses Keith, even though they won’t leave until tomorrow. Even though he’s going to see Keith again in just a few hours.

With this thought in mind, he slams down hard against his suitcase, smashing everything inside of it together so tightly that it takes a little bit longer to fluff out this time.

“I’m done,” he bites out, and Hunk doesn’t question why he sounds so frustrated. Maybe he thinks that Lance just hates packing, despite how excited he’d been when they’d initially packed to come here. Maybe, he just knows Lance well enough to understand that he’s arbitrarily decided to be a baby about this. Maybe he just doesn’t want to tell him—

_‘Well, try walking in my shoes, dude. I haven’t seen Shay in four months.’_

And now that he’s thinking of that possibility, he can’t even imagine it. Immediately, the guilt ebbs in. He doesn’t want to sully Hunk’s good mood with his own misery, not after Hunk has been so nice to him about Keith, all this time. He knows that Hunk must have been lonely, that perhaps, it might have been a subtle slap in the face that Lance never stopped talking about his wonderful new relationship while Hunk was making the best of something so distant and just… surely not as good.

But Lance has never been in a relationship with anyone before Keith—long distance or otherwise—so even now, he isn’t sure how he’ll handle it. And he doesn’t know what the future holds now, if this might make or break them. If somehow, during their long time spent apart, maybe Keith will meet someone else.

Someone who doesn’t make a huge deal out of everything. Someone who can do better than he can. Someone who won’t go away every winter and summer—and that reminds him, in another profoundly miserable moment, that he’ll be taking an even longer break at the end of the spring semester.

They’ll be apart for three excruciating months. And surely, by then, Keith will have realized that the distance isn’t worth it. It’s not reasonably to expect Keith to be strung along by only texts and phone calls, and their brief, fleeting encounters during the small reprieve of the spring and fall semesters.

He’ll be looking for someone more mature, more grown up. Someone who has it all figured out. Someone who has the free time to give him the attention that he deserves.

Lance has known all along that Keith needs someone far more capable than he is. He’s known, from the very start, that Keith is a special kind of person—someone who lights the night sky. Someone bigger and louder and better than he could ever hope to be.

He drags in a deep sigh, pushing his suitcase out of the way before throwing himself down onto his bed. Hunk perks up slightly, dropping his head to the side to give him a worried look.

He’s quick to deduce the situation, just from the miserable sigh that Lance pushes out, and the floppy, rubbery way that he falls to his mattress. Understanding washes over his expression at a speed that burrows itself deep under Lance’s skin.

He doesn’t like being this predictable, even though he knows that Hunk means well. He doesn’t like being this worried or vulnerable—this childish or paranoid about circumstances that haven’t even happened yet—but after Keith, he also knows that Hunk is probably the best person to talk to about all of this.

“It’ll be fine, man,” Hunk tells him, “It’s only a three hour drive anyway. I’m sure we can, you know… take a trip out here after Christmas. Or he could drive up there! I bet his parents would let him borrow their car!”

Lance hoists himself upwards on his elbows, just to send Hunk a worried look, but he doesn't say anything further. Every argument that he can conjure up is far too emotional, silly or ridiculous enough that he knows better than to say anything out loud. They stare at each other for an awkward moment, as Lance continues basking in his misery, and Hunk continues to fiddle with his phone.

"What if he doesn't though, Hunk? What if he decides that it's not worth it?"

Hunk sputters a laugh, dropping his phone down to his chest and pulling himself up into a seated position.

"He's not going to do that, Lance," Hunk tells him, "but it's... it's kind of the gamble that you have to take, you know? You guys can't be around each other all the time, forever. There are going to be times when you aren't going to see each other... and when you'll be busy, and he'll be free. When you’re gonna both try your hardest and things just aren’t gonna work out how you want them to. Your schedules aren't always going to line up perfectly, but you know... when you find the time, you just have to have faith that he's still gonna want to see you."

Lance bites the inside of his cheek. He drops his head back down to the mattress, staring at the ceiling and wrapping himself up more comfortably in his unhappiness.

It's not particularly reassuring, if he's honest with himself. Nothing that Hunk has told him makes him feel even remotely better about any of this. But he knows that Hunk is telling the truth, that he’s right—even though his mind is intent on convincing him that the end is nigh, and no amount of tender love and care, or patience, or faith in himself and Keith will be able to revive it once their relationship has been smothered by his impending absence. Everything with Keith so far has been a gamble. Every interaction, every fumbled encounter. Every part of his relationship with Keith has been the two of them placing all of their chips on the same seemingly hopeless bets.

And so far, he knows, things haven't gone too terribly for either of them. If anything, their gambles have yielded a fortune that even his own wild imagination couldn’t have comprehended.

They're happy, still. Their relationship only becomes more comfortable as time goes on. Keith still makes him laugh, still makes his knees weak. Keith still draws closer at times, still finds comfort in his touch. Keith still seems to like him well enough. And he knows that he still loves Keith.

It's effortless, for now. It's almost _too easy_ , if he's completely honest with himself, considering how much worse all of this could have went.

He hadn’t expected a relationship when he’d first started courting Keith. He’d expected some intricate rejection—a long road of getting his hopes up only for things to cave in at the last conceivable second. He hadn’t expected for Keith to like him too. And he knows that this relationship is so much more than he could have ever hoped for. He knows, deep down, that maybe he’s always suspected that there was a shelf life to this particular brand of happiness, and he was slowly running out of time.

He isn't sure if their relationship is steady enough to find its footing during these long periods apart. He doesn't know if he'll be able to come back to school and just expect for everything to be normal again. He doesn't know if Keith will be willing to wait for him, after so much time passes.

And he knows what he thinks that Keith deserves, and sitting around just as lonely as he must have been before Lance stumbled clumsily into his life in the first place definitely isn't one of the many wonderful things that Lance hopes for him.

He lets out a long, shaky sigh. He's so stressed that he feels like he could scream, could cry, could call his mother and tell her hurriedly that he can't make it home for the winter, and just figure out where he's going to live for the next month so he won't have to risk not seeing Keith and ruining their relationship over nothing but a silly holiday.

He knows that it's selfish. He knows that his mom wouldn't understand. His family wants to see him, and they miss him just as much as he misses them. He doesn’t want to have to choose between them and his boyfriend, and he knows that Keith wouldn’t want that either. Keith would be infuriated if he found out that Lance blew off his parents just so they could spend more time together, but even still, the childish voice inside of him won't stop reminding him that everything would be so much easier if he didn't have to leave.

"You can't stay here," Hunk tells him, as though he's read his mind, "so you have to do this sooner or later. He knows that you're leaving, and I'm sure he's sad about it too, but... you'll make it work. I know you will. You guys are good together. Keith likes you enough that he'll wait for you."

Lance wants to ask him, _'but for how long?'_

He wants to ask him, _'how many times?'_

He wants to tell Hunk that not everyone can be as mature as he is with Shay. He wants to tell him that this is just a disaster waiting to happen. He wants to make a scene out of this, to give himself the excuse that he keeps looking for to overreact and vent all of his frustrations on the first person who pushes him too hard.

He wants to yell and to throw a fit. He wants to be a brat about this, because it _is_ unfair. It’s frustrating and terrifying. It’s the kind of thing that he never would have considered to be part of something as lovely and awe-inspiring as his relationship with Keith.

But instead taking it out on Hunk, who he knows doesn’t deserve any of this, he just continues staring at the ceiling. He keeps those bitter, unfair thoughts to himself. He listens as Hunk picks up his phone and begins his noisy typing once again.

Three more hours, and he'll see Keith.

Hopefully, not for the last time.

 

* * *

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Tell Keith bye for us, Lance! You'd better not forget! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I didn’t realize that you were so in love with Keith that you needed to give him a “special” goodbye. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Wow, okay. I didn’t realize that telling you to say goodbye to your boyfriend for me was such a “special goodbye”. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Fine, how about this, tell Keith, “Keith, baby, I love ya. How about you ditch that lowlife Lance and meet up with a real Casanova. I don’t know if you’ve heard, Keith, but chem students do it on the table periodically.” _

_**Hunk3141** : Oh my God, Pidge! That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard. _

_**Hunk3141** : Also, please be nice to Lance, dude. He’s not having a great day. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Trouble in paradise? _

_**Hunk3141** : I mean… sort of? You know we’re gonna be gone for a month after tonight. And tonight is, you know… his last date with Keith until we come back. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Oh, ouch. I guess my chem joke wasn’t in good taste then, was it? _

_**Hunk3141** : Yeah, not really. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Then I redact it… for now. _

 

_—-Keith101693 has joined the chat—-_

 

_**LadiesLoveLance** : There you are! I’ve been trying to call you, uh… my uber is being kind of a pain in the ass. He keeps telling me that he can’t find the campus, so I might be kinda late! He’s cancelled on me like three times, and for some reason, it keeps just pairing me up with him over and over again! I might have to call customer service or something... _

_**Keith101693** : Just cancel it. I’ll come get you. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : No, it’s fine! I just tried to call and you weren’t picking up, so I didn’t know if you were waiting on me, or if you thought I wasn’t coming, you know? _

_**Keith101693** : Yeah, I’m busy. But I’m almost done. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : You don’t have to stop just to come here! Don’t worry about me! _

_**Keith101693** : Cancel the ride. I’ll be there in a minute. _

 

_—-Keith101693 has left the chat—-_

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Holy shit, Keith was really… assertive there, wasn’t he? _

_**Hunk3141** : He really knows how to take control. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : It’s kinda… kinky, don’t you think? I’m having heart palpitations. _

_**Hunk3141** : Fifty Shades of Cheese. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Fifty Slices of Gouda. _

_**Hunk3141** : Wasn’t it pepper jack though? Or was it provolone? You know, the famous “extra cheese”. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I’m not sure if Lance ever said? Does Lance even know the differences between specific cheeses? _

_**Hunk3141** : Maybe the real mystery has been right under our noses all this time, Pidge. Why has Lance been so purposefully vague about the parameters of “The Cheese”? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Maybe Keith dominated him, Hunk. Maybe he demanded that Lance never speak of the extra cheese or else... _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Can you guys quit?! He just doesn’t text a lot. He comes across kind of bossy, but he doesn’t mean to! He’s just blunt. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Hey, we’re not complaining! I just wasn’t expecting to witness such a spicy conversation so… publicly. I mean, good for you, Lance, really. I just never would have expected for you to be so submissive. _

_**Hunk3141** : He’s like a chihuahua, Pidge. Yap, yap, yap, but if you have a firm hand, he’s easy to tame. _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : Somehow, no matter how many times I think that you’ve both chosen the absolute WORST topic possible to talk about, you continue to surprise me! _

_**LadiesLoveLance** : I gotta go! PLEASE stop talking about this. If not for my sanity, then for Keith’s when he comes online later. God. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You know you love it, Lance. There’s gotta be a good reason why you keep coming back here. _

 

_—-LadiesLoveLance has left the chat—-_

 

* * *

 

Lance shoves his hands into his pockets, craning his neck to watch the random students making their way about campus around him. There aren’t a lot of people outside now—in the cold and the gray sludge of residual snow. Most people have left for winter break already, despite the fact that the last day of classes was only yesterday. He'd barely been able to focus during his finals, despite the fact that Keith had stayed up late with him the entire week before just to help him study.

He's been in a haze, this whole week. He's been counting the minutes, the seconds, the mere flashes of time that he's spent with Keith—knowing entirely too well that every passing moment was just another step towards not seeing Keith for entirely too long. It had felt like the end, then. It had felt as though his movie was finally ending, and there would be nothing left of the two of them but the unknowns that might, potentially, rest in whatever their future would hold.

He'd felt as though his narrative was winding down, as though the screen would fade to black and the credits would begin to roll—any day now, he’d thought. At any moment, this story could end, and he was completely powerless to control where things would eventually leave off.

No one would ever know if he and Keith survived the winter. If their relationship was healthy enough or happy enough that they'd be able to stick together despite the looming break. He'd known better than that, even as he continued to stress about this throughout the last week, but now, as he waits for Keith to come to him, as he cancels his uber and makes his way inside—he can't help but think that maybe this really is the final chapter of his life.

Maybe this really is the end of his dreadfully short love story.

Maybe he'll never find out if he and Keith will stay together. Maybe their relationship will continue to hang in the dreadfully fragile thread between just good enough and not good enough to survive all of this.

Maybe he'll never know if these sorts of miraculous stories could actually exist outside of the movies.

And maybe Keith will never actually love him. Maybe they'll never get to that point.

Maybe their entire relationship was doomed to fail from the beginning—a supernova devoured by a black hole. A light too big and too bright to last for too long—something so profoundly beautiful that the world couldn’t handle it for very long.

He knows that he sounds silly now. That the love of two dumb, aimless boys is nothing noteworthy enough to change the entire world. His relationship with Keith is just himself, always shooting far out of his league. Always setting himself up for failure and disappointment. Always telling himself that somehow, with enough love and care, he might be able to find something warm and soft and welcoming in the fast-paced, lonely, busy life that he’s made for himself here.

He knows that Keith wouldn’t understand it, if he tried to explain. He knows that Keith would be offended by the mere notion that anyone wasn’t “good enough” for him—and especially Lance. Especially the one person who he’s made a point of spending as much time as possible with since they started dating.

But he still can’t shake the insecurity, and the doubt, and the lingering worry that maybe he’s grown too comfortable now. Maybe he’s convinced himself that he’s already found “the one” so early in his life, that box is checked, and there’s nowhere to go from here. He knows that life isn't always like that. He knows that many people go through dozens of relationships before settling down with someone for the rest of their lives.

He doesn’t know if he could ever be lucky enough to win that lottery. When every other gamble that he’s taken so far has ended so terribly, he isn’t sure why this one could end any differently.

But when he thinks of Keith, he can’t find a single thing that he doesn’t like about him. He can’t imagine ever growing tired of having him close by. He can imagine getting married to Keith, adopting kids, buying a house. He can imagine these extravagant moments, these personal checkpoints—but he can also imagine the two of them going grocery shopping together. How Keith would waver between the gluten-free, soy infused, ridiculous nonsense that the Shiroganes bring home, and the junk food that Lance knows that he likes better.

He can imagine waiting for Keith to come home from work, or the two of them cleaning the bathroom, vacuuming the carpets. He can imagine Keith getting frustrated as he washed dishes, the two of them laughing over drinks on their shared days off. He can imagine a Keith who chooses to wear the gray strands in his hair with pride, just like Shiro’s mother. He can imagine a Keith with so many wrinkles that he might look more akin to an old leather couch.

He can imagine the two of them growing old together, watching TV together, reading the paper or playing video games. The exciting and the mundane, the wonderful and the bad. And he wants every part of it, every piece of it, every shred of this existence laid out in a path so enticing before him, if only he’s clever enough not to ruin it all tonight.

He pulls open the door, pulling his hands out of his pockets and brushing the snow from his coat. He doesn't know if there's a director or a writer cruel enough to end his story on such a sour note. He doesn't know what kind of sicko a creator would have to be to end this narrative without giving him the happy ending that he, personally, believes that he absolutely deserves.

And he knows better than to think that Keith would leave him hanging like that. It wouldn't be fair. It wouldn't be kind.

It wouldn't be Keith.

That thought is a warm relief, blossoming in his chest as he turns to peer out of the front door from the lobby. He doesn't know exactly how long it takes to get from Keith's house to his dorms. He's never been coherent enough to completely wrap his head around timing it when he's had the chance. Keith is always holding him entirely too close, or pressing his face between his shoulder blades. Keith is always talking to him, or laughing at one of his dumb jokes. He’s always smiling with those perfect, straight white teeth. He’s always smelling so good that Lance never wants to smell anything else ever again.

Keith is always entirely too intoxicating for him to focus for too long on anything else.

But he waits now, weighed down by all of these thoughts, when they used to make him feel lighter than air. He feels chained now, to this relationship, if only because he can feel its inevitable ending looming over him like a dark cloud.

He doesn't want to think about not being with Keith. He can't imagine a version of his life where the two of them aren't together. Where Keith isn't lighting up the dark caverns of his heart. Where Keith isn't making even the worst situations better.

He doesn't want to think that someday, he'll be alone again. And he doesn't want to think that Keith might initiate that loneliness, might grow tired of him, might decide, in the end, that he's not worth it and break things off before he can even return for the spring semester.

Lance drags in a deep breath through his teeth, pushing it hard through his nose as he jerks his head to the side. He listens to the conversations humming around him without really hearing them, sees his peers meandering around aimlessly without really taking them in.

Idly, he fetches his headphones out of his pocket, plugging them into his phone before shoving the buds into his ears. He puts his playlist on shuffle, keeping a close eye on the road outside of the window as he waits for Keith’s car to pull around.

He’s grown familiar with Keith behind the wheel by now, since the snow has started falling more frequently, as his bike has gotten frozen and jammed in the cold weather more often, and Keith began picking him up before and after his shifts every weekend. It’s another new normal for them. Another day-to-day occurrence that he knows he’s going to miss now that everything is going to change.

 _It’s only for one month_ , the little Hunk voice that lives inside of his thoughts tells him.

 _Stop being such a big baby_ , Pidge chimes in.

He knows better than to think that this is the end. The Keith who smiled at him with damp eyes in his dorm room last month wouldn’t leave him high and dry. The Keith who belted at him that he was better than every person who had ever hurt him wouldn’t turn around and leave him alone, at first sign that things weren’t going to be easy.

The Keith who held him close, who kissed him so gently—the Keith who pressed his fingers into his skin, mapped him out as though he’d always wanted to remember every crease of him—he wouldn’t leave him like this. He wouldn’t hurt him, when he’d touched him as though he was somehow fragile. When he’d gazed at him as though, somehow, whatever he saw when he looked at Lance was even remotely as breathtaking as what Lance saw when he looked at him.

His thoughts feel thick in his throat, impossibly wet behind his eyes. He rubs at his face with his sleeve around his wrist, cursing himself silently as he finally spots the minivan pulling up to the entrance of the dorm building.

There’s something sad about the walk from the entryway, along the concrete path to Keith’s van. There’s something so terribly _final_ about this trek that he’s taking to meet Keith—like a death march, he thinks. Like a man traversing to the guillotine, knowing entirely well that this will be the end of him, but still marching forward nonetheless.

But Lance knows that turning heel and fleeing won’t do him any favors now. He feels compelled to face this, even if it does mean the end. Even if, waiting for him in that van now, is Keith, trying to find the right words to break things off—now that he knows that this just isn’t going to work. Three hours is too long to drive, and his schedule is frightfully packed as it is.

Keith isn’t the type of person to initiate skype dates. He isn’t the kind of guy who likes to talk on the phone. Lance doesn’t know now if it would be wrong to fight for him. If it would be inappropriate to beg him to try to make things work.

If maybe, loving Keith might mean finally understanding that he can’t give him what he needs, and so… letting him go.

Even the thought of that makes him want to cry.

So, instead of torturing himself and blubbering helplessly in front of the guy who he’s trying not to be dumped by, as he grasps the handle of the door and pulls it open, he tries to focus on how pretty Keith looks.

He’s bundled up in three layers of clothing. His hair is stuffed underneath a thick, woolen cap. There’s a scarf strewn loosely around his neck—bright red, in a shade that pops beautifully against his porcelain skin.

And he’s smiling, when Lance shuffles into his seat and closes the door. Immediately, Lance is wrapped in the warmth of the spurting heating vents, and the musky smell of Keith’s cologne.

He feels lightheaded, just as thrown off as he always does around Keith. He feels as though this level of comfort was the last thing that he was expecting when he’d steeled himself to see Keith for the last time.

“You look upset,” Keith tells him, brows furrowed and low, lip jutting out in concern, “Are you okay?”

Lance nods, forcing a laugh.

“Y-yeah, sorry, I… I’m just kind of sad, you know? With this… being our last night together for awhile.”

Keith pauses for a long moment, before he nods and turns back to the steering wheel more fully. He waits until Lance clicks his seat belt to start driving, and only then does he speak again.

“I picked up a pizza on the way over here, sorry it took so long. Fuckin’ guy put pepperonis on the receipt instead of sausage. I had to correct him three times before he’d listen to me, and I was so late by the time that he got it cleared up that I couldn’t even check to make sure that they didn’t mess it up. Can you check?”

He jerks his head towards the back seat, and Lance cranes his neck to see what he’s motioning at. True to his word, there’s a single pizza box in the backseat. He doesn’t say so out loud, but after so many months working at _Sal’s_ , even the mere sight of pizza makes his stomach turn.

He can already imagine himself suffering through every slice, if only to make Keith feel better about the whole thing. But it’s weird, he thinks, that Keith would pick pizza, of all things. With how weary he is of eating deli sandwiches, Lance would have thought that he’d be very familiar with the idea of not being able to stomach food that’s even remotely similar to the stuff that he serves every day.

But he brushes those thoughts away. It’s weird, and slightly discomforting, but he reasons that, perhaps, the pizza joint was the only place that Keith had time to stop at on the way. Maybe, hopefully, it’s nothing more than that.

“You wanted sausage, right?” Lance asks him, leaning further back and grasping the box. It clatters in a way that’s very unlike a pizza. It’s lightweight, in a way that only makes all of this more confusing.

And scrawled over the top of the box, in a thick calligraphy that Lance thinks might be a little bit too fancy for a pizza place—in the space usually reserved for the restaurant’s name, it says, _‘Every Pizza Me…’_

He raises an eyebrow, setting the box down in his lap. Keith swallows quickly, audibly. He’s gripping the steering wheel a little bit tighter now.

“Well… check it!” He says, exasperated and embarrassed, so red in the cheeks that Lance can’t stop the grin from spreading out over his lips.

His fingers shake, his heart pounds relentlessly in his chest.

And slowly—achingly slowly—he lifts the lid.

The glitter sparkles in the light of the streetlamps streaking outside of the windows. A few pieces break free from the cardboard, glistening in a slow-motion journey to the bottom of the box. The letters on the inside of the lid are more clumsy—a first attempt at bubble font, Lance can tell.

But he can read the words just fine—an addition to the beginnings of the sentence on the outside of the lid— _’Loves Every Pizza You.’_

_Every Pizza Me… Loves Every Pizza You._

_Every piece of me loves every piece of you._

Lance feels as though his heart has just plummeted from his chest into the acidic depths of his belly. He feels as though his skin has been set aflame—as though the world outside of the van’s windows is blurry and indecipherable, too bright, too fast, too much, when all he wants to do is continue staring at this box forever.

In place of the anticipated pizza are what look to be dozens of shapes cut out of multi-colored craft paper. There are hearts, stars, circles and squares. There are lumpy shapes that might not be anything—cat heads and dream clouds. Octagons and Triangles, all in such a wide variety of colors that only continue to confuse him.

And on each one, Lance can see Keith’s scribbly handwriting—slow and practiced as though he was trying very hard to be neat.

Each shape is marked with a trait—about him, he realizes. Something that Keith loves about him.

_‘Your smile’_

_‘Your laugh’_

_‘How funny you are’_

_‘How much you love your family’_

_‘How much you love me’_

And Lance does cry now, but not for the reasons that he was originally anticipating. He cries because Keith is smiling bashfully now, because he’s saying, in a voice so rough and uneasy that Lance isn’t sure that he’s said these words before—

“I—I’m sorry that I didn’t say it before, but… I love you. And… I wanted to say it in a special way—how you’re always making everything special.”

They’re parked now, Lance realizes belatedly. They’re in a parking lot of a convenience store, but not the one from his memories. Keith must have veered over here in a hurry, at the first sign that Lance was going to make as big of a scene out of this, just as he’s surely made a big scene out of everything else so far. But he can’t focus on how silly he feels right now, because that isn’t the most intense of his emotions right now.

It isn’t more important than all of these notes—

 

_‘How handsome you are’_

_‘Your beautiful eyes’_

_‘How you know all of the words to basically every movie’_

 

And the words—

 

_“I love you”_

_“I wanted to say it in a special way”_

_“I love you”_

_“You’re always making everything special”_

 

_“I love you”_

 

_“I love you”_

 

**_“I love you”_ **

 

His thoughts are in a tailspin. His pulse is so thick and fast that he feels as though his entire body is vibrating. His breath is caught in his throat, and his nose is running, he knows. He can’t possibly look nearly as pretty as Keith must have thought while he was putting all of this together, but Keith still touches him.

He still unbuckles his seat belt, leans over the cup holders and slides an arm around Lance’s shoulders. He still leans in then, pressing his lips against Lance’s forehead, right between his eyebrows.

And he breathes a shaky laugh when Lance jerks his head up and catches his lips. He allows himself to be kissed even though Lance knows that he’s gross now—that Keith looks so pretty and pristine, as he always does, and here Lance is, messing that up by getting tears and snot all over his fancy clothes.

But Keith draws him as fully into his arms as he can in car seats. He rests his chin against Lance’s hair, rubs his back as he snivels and cries out all of the anxiety of the prior weeks. And Keith tells him over and over again, _“It’s okay. I love you. I really love you.”_

It’s a gentle, private moment in a public parking lot. Lance doesn’t even want to think about what passersby must think of the two of them now.

But it’s their last night together, and Keith only seems to love him more.

They’re close, for now. Their world in this night is endless, until the dawn. And Lance will leave tomorrow, he’ll bring this box and all of his things home. There will be hours and hours, miles and miles between them, but Keith won’t let that stop him from being in love. He won’t give up. He won’t move on to anything better.

Lance pulls back, wipes off his face as best he can with his sleeve. Keith’s eyes are a little red around the edges, but he’s smiling—in that bashful, tentative way that he always smiles.

“I love it,” Lance tells him, “a-and I love you, and… thank you.”

Keith nods then, laughter in his grin, in the way that he bites the inside of his lip.

And Lance tells him, just as they’re getting situated again and Keith begins to pull out of the parking lot, “God, I’m so relieved that we don’t have to eat pizza tonight too.”

Keith laughs louder at that than Lance has ever heard him laugh about anything so far.

And their last night together, Lance thinks, begins and ends so much better than he could have ever anticipated.

When he packs his things the next morning and boards the bus home with Hunk, any doubt that he could have had about their relationship is miraculously left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! Happy Friday! So this chapter is what I’ve been referring to as the “last” cheese chapter, even though there’s technically one more left! It’s the ending of this particular length of time, if that makes sense! So next week, I guess we’ll all just have to see what the final chapter brings!
> 
> This week, BellaVitano is the favorite cheese of **My_ships_are_better_than_yours**! Thank you so much for sharing with me! It’s honestly amazing that we managed to collect enough cheeses to last for this entire story, but there are a surprising amount of cheeses out there, aren’t there? 
> 
> Another special thanks to **[TLaw](http://oneyedkaneking.tumblr.com/)** for editing this chapter for me! I know it was kinda long, so… it helped a lot! Really, I needed it. 
> 
> Anyway, as always, thank you so much for reading! I’ll see you next week for the very last chapter!


	25. Gorgonzola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today’s Specials: Breakfast fit for kings, long lines at the Deli, and endings that aren’t really the end.

Lance awakens to the sound of his phone ringing. The tone is obnoxious enough that it jars him out of sweet dreams, and very much-needed sleep. For a long moment after finally fading out from slumber, he stares up at the patterns on the ceiling, the shadows moving slowly over the walls as headlights pass through the cracks in the curtains.

He thinks about the last year of his life.

The bedroom where he currently lays is one that he owns alone. There isn’t a roommate slumbering across the room. There isn’t another person cramming their things inside of one half of his closet, praying every time that they pull the doors open that everything won’t come tumbling out.

There aren’t another pair of ears trying desperately not to eavesdrop on all of his phone conversations—but it’s a little bit lonely. He’d grown up sharing a room with his older brother, and once his siblings had gotten old enough to move away, he’d spent three nights a week bunking with his nephews, when his sister worked the late shift at the hospital and dropped them off for himself and his parents to keep an eye on.

He feels as though the existence of other people, and the close company found in compact quarters with another person—those ideals are so deeply embedded in the general person that he considers himself to be, that he wonders sometimes, in the early mornings when even the sun is still sleeping, who he actually is in the silence and the dark. If he’s real now, when no one else is here to listen to him.

If anything that he says or anything that he thinks holds any real weight, when no one is around to witness it.

With groggy eyes and rubbery limbs, he lifts his phone to his face. He squints against the light of the screen, turning down the brightness as his eyes struggle to grow accustomed to the glare of it. There are three unread messages on his chat app. He has four unread texts, two missed calls, a single message on Facebook. He knows that the calls are from his mom last night, checking in to see how he’s fairing in the new apartment, far away from the hustle and bustle of campus. So much further away from home than he’s willing to admit that he’s comfortable with, even after all this time.

But a quiet apartment is better for quiet studying, she’d told him. Better for privacy, and safer than some tuna can jam packed with hundreds of other people who she admitted openly that she didn’t trust around her youngest, most sheltered son.

She’d been elated when he’d told her that he was making enough money now to pay rent. A linear move from food service to a different food service wasn’t exactly something that most parents would consider to be particularly fantastic, but when he’d called to drop the news at the beginning of the spring semester, she’d still bragged about it—publicly, online— as though it was the most wonderful thing in the world.

_ ‘My talented, handsome son got a job offer without even applying! Isn’t he amazing?!’ _

She’d omitted a few choice details then—like, the fact that it was his boyfriend’s brother who had offered him the gig in the first place, and it was only because Allura was going back to school, along with Keith, and neither of them had enough time for the long hours that they’d grown accustomed to at the Deli. And Sal had, true to Rolo’s word, filled his position without notice while he was gone.

He’d still had a job when he got back, but two hours a week wasn’t even worth the bike ride across town. His first measly paycheck was barely enough to cover a week’s worth of cheap junk food to keep him alive long enough to work his shifts.

It was kind of Shiro to offer him the job, he knows, but he also knows that the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. And he knows, despite how sarcastically he’d joked about it mentally so long ago, that Keith really was making some substantial money at the Deli that he couldn’t have imagined was possible when he was making well below minimum wage as a delivery boy.

He runs a hand through his hair, careful to hold his phone tightly so he doesn’t drop it on his face. He focuses his attention on the notification on the Facebook messenger app, and for whatever reason—despite knowing entirely well who would be messaging him on Facebook, of all places—he clicks that one first. It’s like ripping off a bandaid, he tells himself. It’s getting the most painful process out of the way in the beginning, just so the remainder of his responses will feel less horrible in comparison.

**_Takashi Shirogane 5:23 A.M_ ** _.: I’m going to be a little late today. Just open as we usually would together! I’ll draw the cartoons when I come in. _

He has to laugh a little at the ridiculousness of that message alone. As though, for whatever reason, the cartoons would even be on his radar as something to worry about while opening the Deli by himself.

**_Me 5:34 A.M_ ** _.: Got it, boss. _

His relationship with Shiro has become less strained over time, but in the pits of his belly, he can still feel the resonant fluttering of butterfly’s wings pattering each time that Shiro’s name pops up in his notifications, or those rare instances when Shiro pulls him aside to talk to him about something work related.

The little check mark signals next to his message, assuring him that Shiro’s seen it. He closes out of the app, clearing a few random notifications before checking his email. His afternoon literature class has been cancelled for the day. There will be a two hour period between two classes when he’ll have time to do his homework now. That might also be enough time to run to the Deli and spend his lunch break there, if he organizes things correctly, and he imagines that the school cafe might have something quick and portable enough that might even fit comfortably on his bike.

Another teacher is asking him about a weekend marketing workshop in a town over. He checks his work schedule, wondering idly if he can find someone to cover his shift so he can make it.

He continues trudging through his morning routine—checking messages and responding back, shifting around the small reprieves of time that he still has free in order to make room for new opportunities.

Life, anymore, has become faster. As he continues the journey to getting his degree, to becoming a respectable member of society who deserves all of his mother’s bragging, he finds that he’s only stumbling upon more opportunities.

And he feels overwhelmed by it, so crippled under the pressure of a life finally building something out of itself that sometimes he feels like he can’t breathe. And at times like that, he wonders if that’s how Keith used to feel. If, after so much time spent feeling hopeless, the endless possibilities suddenly sprouting up left and right may have seemed so mountainous that he could barely even consider choosing a single path to take.

He feels, during moments like this, as though opening one door might close a dozen others. And the doors aren’t really labelled, not in a way that could help him choose. If he works an extra shift at the Deli, he’ll have more money to spend on a Spring Break trip to a media convention, where he might be able to make connections to some big names in the business. But then he might miss the workshop over the weekend. He’ll lose that important information, the tips and tricks that might make him more capable of succeeding when he finally does graduate.

He feels now, as though he’s stranded in the middle of a four-way fork. Each road, devoid and empty of any clues as to where he should be headed, and only his own judgement will lead him to the end. An unknown end, at that. There’s no promise of a happy ending at the mouth of any of those paths. For all he knows, everything that he’s done so far has only dug him deeper and deeper into an unwitting pit of failure.

He knows better than to tell himself that he shouldn’t move at all. He knows, as Keith told him over a year ago, that the moving part is all that really matters. The journey will lead him somewhere, even if  he doesn’t make every single perfect decision.

But he isn’t sure, even still, if Keith feels stalled in the many options too. If he feels self-conscious about starting school later, taking paths blindly without really knowing where they might lead.

He doesn’t know if Keith feels insecure about all of the same things as he does, and if maybe, life itself is just a series of long shots in the dark, hoping that you might be able to make contact against something worthwhile.

He shakes away those thoughts, knowing better than to get caught up in one of his famous inner monologues when he still needs to finish responding to messages before he gets out of bed.

Keith, he knows, is slowly changing. Keith’s in general ed classes now, working on the tall task of figuring out who he wants to be. And Keith enjoys his astronomy class. He likes the classes where he gets to work on cars. He’s studious and well-organized, which somehow still surprises Lance. He’s so hyper focused on every task at hand that so far, he’s flown through school almost effortlessly.

He makes things look so easy, that sometimes Lance forgets that there’s more behind that facade of a perfectly well-adjusted young adult than most of their peers could ever understand.

His parents had hung his letter from the Dean’s list on the fridge last time that Lance visited. Keith had made a point of trying to avoid talking about it as best as he could, but at the end of the night, Lance couldn’t help but mention it. He couldn’t help but wrap his arms around him, pull him in closer, and tell him,  _ “I’m really proud of you.” _

Keith had rebuffed him in his embarrassment. He’d told him that it wasn’t a big deal. But he’d let Lance kiss him anyway, because he’d always had trouble denying Lance a kiss.

He’d always had trouble denying Lance pretty much anything—even a well-earned sense of pride over his boyfriend being smart enough and talented enough to ace all of his classes when so many of their peers were already struggling.

Finally, he checks the chat.

 

* * *

 

_**Keith101693** : I thought it was fine. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : You thought it was ‘fine’?! It’s a masterpiece! How could you just call it ‘fine’?! _

_**Hunk3141** : Pidge, not everyone loves the same movies as you. What movies do you like, Keith? _

_**Keith101693** : I don’t know. I think movies are kind of a waste of time, usually. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : That makes sense. Sorry, I forgot that you live under a rock. _

_**Keith101693** : I live under a rock because I don’t want to spend hours sitting around doing nothing? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Just because you aren’t doing something productive doesn’t mean that you “aren’t doing anything”! Do you seriously not have any fun hobbies? I mean, I doubt spending hours and hours baby talking to Lance really counts as “productive” either. _

_**Hunk3141** : To be fair, I can’t imagine Keith baby talking anyone, even Lance. _

 

_ —-LanceLovesKeith has joined the chat—- _

 

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : What a conveniently-placed entrance. Thank you, Lance. I rest my case. _

_**LanceLovesKeith** : What is that even supposed to mean?! What are you guys possibly arguing about this early in the morning? Keith, aren’t you in class?! _

_**Keith101693** : Pidge is talking about King of the Rings or something, I don’t know. The movie with the little men and that goblin guy. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : KING OF THE RINGS?!!? ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW OR ARE YOU JUST TRYING TO PISS ME OFF?! _

_**LanceLovesKeith** : Wow, Keith, nice job. It took me forever to learn how to get under Pidge's skin like that. _

_**Keith101693** : I’m in class, but we’re working on some worksheet that I already finished. So I’m kind of just sitting here because there’s nothing else to do. _

_**Keith101693** : Did Shiro send you a message? _

_**LanceLovesKeith** : Yeah, he said he was going to be late today. What’s going on? _

_**Keith101693** : It’s really stupid. _

_**Keith101693** : One of Allura’s pet mice got loose so he has to go over there and help her look for it. She was crying on the phone about it this morning. I guess she’s looked everywhere, and her aunt’s staying with them and brought this cat of hers with her. So it’s “red alert” or whatever for these dumb mice. _

_**LanceLovesKeith** : Are you serious? _

_**Keith101693** : Yeah, not kidding. _

_**LanceLovesKeith** : Did she leave some cheese out? _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Yeah, I’ve heard that extra cheese is good at catching dirty rats. _

_**LanceLovesKeith** : Wow! Okay, I’m not the one who insulted Lord of the Rings, Pidge. You can ease off a little. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : I saw my opportunity and I pounced. _

_**LanceLovesKeith** : Okay, well, have fun arguing about Lord of the Flies, Pidge-for-Brains. I gotta go. _

_**SchrodingersPigeon** : Are you serious right now?! _

 

_ —-LanceLovesKeith has left the chat—- _

 

* * *

 

Finally, Lance pulls himself out of bed. He sets his phone down on the mattress, scrubbing both hands over his face before stepping further into the room. The sun is just beginning to skim the horizon outside of his window—the early morning noise picking up from the quiet of the previous night’s gentle quiet. He can hear traffic somewhere off in the distance, the honking horns, the voices of passing pedestrians. The revving of engines and the chirping of birds.

His apartment isn’t a particularly noisy place. His neighbors are all old people and young families—early to bed each night, early to rise each morning. Through the connecting wall, he can hear the old lady next door turn on the morning news.

At its absolute worst, sometimes she loses her hearing aid and ramps the volume up loud enough that he can hear everything that the newscasters are saying. But most days, like today, things are quiet enough that he can pretend that no one else is living around him—and this place might be one of the few places where he can finally get some peace and quiet.

He grabs an outfit blindly out of his closet, convincing himself that his night vision is good enough that surely, he’s picked something that won’t look completely ridiculous. And once he’s fetched a pair of underwear and socks from the drawer on the other side of the room, he heads from his bedroom into the dimly lit hall.

Something that smells absolutely delicious is cooking in the kitchen. Through the bleariness of his own exhaustion, and the single light illuminating the rest of the apartment from the end of the hall, he can hear Hunk humming as he prepares their breakfast—just as he has every other day since they moved in.

“Morning,” he calls out, and moments later, Hunk is leaning out of the kitchen’s entryway and waving him a mitten-clad hello.

“Sleep okay?” Hunk asks, and despite how much he’d love to confirm that, he can only grunt.

He’d been up late studying again last night. He’d been in class until 10pm, anyway, before he’d even gotten a chance to go home, take a shower, and figure out which subjects needed the most attention while he was still coherent enough to flip through his notes. And this morning is another early shift, until the afternoon, when he’ll head back to school for a long evening of learning once again.

His days lately have been jam-packed with many different things—and not many of them have been particularly fun.

At the very least, he’s looking forward to his Sunday off. Keith is supposed to bring him to his yoga class, for the very first time. It’s some sort of event in the class, a free lesson for friends and families. Or maybe even Keith’s instructor has gotten to the point where she’s too curious about his boyfriend to keep it to herself. Maybe the event was just the flimsy lie that Keith had offered him, in order to avoid the truth—that he’d been asked to bring Lance along if only so the entire class could meet him. Keith has told him often of how nosy the women in that class seem to be.

Generally, Keith seems to be annoyed by it. He doesn’t tend to like people who care too much about his personal business without knowing him well enough not to have to ask. But Lance can’t help but notice that he seems to go along with it anyway. He never tells Lance that he’s told them off. He never alludes to being rude to a single one of them.

Lance isn’t sure if he’s just used to it, or if maybe he doesn’t hate it as much as he claims.

If maybe, over time, Keith has grown to appreciate the attention that other people offer him. If finally, he’s starting to realize that not everyone has ulterior motives. Some people are just nice.

With Keith on the brain, he drags himself down the hall towards the bathroom, telling Hunk that he’ll be back in the kitchen for breakfast after he takes a shower.

Hunk pulls himself back into the kitchen just as Lance turns on the bathroom light. Their shared apartment is surely nothing fancy, but Keith had helped him shop for decorations. It looks nice enough, regardless of how small it is. Regardless of how old and creaky the doors are, or how the windows are so ancient that they won’t even stay open on their own.

They’d settled on a second-hand shower curtain from a thrift store that they’d found tucked away in a strip across town. They’d found a bath mat at a dollar store that feels a little bit too scratchy under his feet, but it does the job well enough.

Keith’s parents had gifted them with kitchenware, and Lance still can’t help but laugh at the starstruck expression on Hunk’s face when he’d lugged the whole lot of it home.

_ “Do you know how much these things cost?” _ Hunk had asked him, flabbergasted.

And even still, Lance doesn’t even want to think about it.

Hunk’s parents bought the television in the living room for him last Christmas. Lance’s family had pooled together their resources and found a mismatched set of furniture that looks nice enough, sure, but it’s lumpy enough that the few times he’s fallen asleep on it, he’s awoken with a terrible cramp in his back. The curtains were a gift from Pidge, the welcome mat with the little R2D2 and the periodic table hanging proudly in the kitchen as well.

Lance feels as though this home of theirs might be a collection of everyone who loves them. He feels, each time that he uses the shampoo that Keith bought him last week out of the blue, or the toothpaste that his mom shipped up here in bulk, that he’s wading through an ocean of so much love, so much tenderness and care, that sometimes, he can’t help but feel overwhelmed with the emotion that all of this instills in him.

Keith laughs at him when he tears up over something as silly as hand-me-downs. Keith says that he really can’t understand why something so mundane should choke him up. But he knows, deep down, that Keith gets it. If he thinks back to all of the times that Keith has gotten misty in the eyes over random acts of kindness, he knows, with absolution, that Keith can’t possibly misunderstand why these things hold so much weight.

But Keith likes to be a tough guy sometimes, Lance also knows. He likes to pretend that he’s above everything else, that nothing could ever get to him.

He’s getting better, in time. He’s learning, slowly, that there’s nothing wrong with caring about other people.

And Lance thinks, as he strips his clothes and turns on the shower, that he’s more than happy to hold his hand and help him navigate through this perilous journey of self-discovery until he finally gets to that point.

The water isn’t nearly as warm as he would like for it to be, when his muscles feel so sore from sitting up so late last night. When his arms still feel so tired from moving freight into the Deli yesterday morning. He has a feeling that Hunk took a shower a few hours ago, when he woke up. More than two showers a day will zap all of the hot water, and a few months ago, they were taking cold baths for a week straight when the water heater busted and the landlord was out of town.

Lance imagines that this is just another part of growing up. Realizing, suddenly, that not everything is sunshine and rainbows once a person finally moves out on their own. He’d had to make a  _ phone call _ , of all terrible, unspeakable things, to tell the landlord that something was wrong.

He’d called his mom first, embarrassingly enough, and she’d laughed when she’d told him,  _ “Honey, I can’t do anything all the way from here. You’re going to have to call him yourself.” _

Keith had offered to allow the two of them to come over and take baths at his house, but the thought alone of leaving the bathroom half naked and coming face-to-face with Shiro—to know that Shiro had seen his formless, noodly form in all of its muscle-less glory— was enough to compel him to feel far more comfortable roughing it out here, on his own in the frigid spray of his broken shower head.

No matter how much Hunk had begged for him to take Keith up on that offer, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Shiro only continues to be the Adonis that had originally caught Lance off guard. He only continues to be chiseled from stone, perfect in almost every conceivable way. And Lance knows that Shiro probably wouldn’t judge him, probably wouldn’t say anything particularly nasty to hurt his feels.

But maybe in the back of Shiro’s mind, a thought would begin to blossom. A biased realization, a curiosity as to why Keith would waste his time with someone made of twigs when Keith himself has a body perfectly crafted from marble.

He washes his hair, his face, his body. He sings loudly and off-key. He knows that Hunk is used to this by now. Here, he doesn’t have anything to feel self conscious about. Here, he can be as embarrassing and foolish as he possibly wants to be, and if Hunk judges him, he really isn’t too concerned.

When they’d first moved in, Keith had spent the night after helping him unpack. They’d passed out together in a pile of his things, unsure of if they had nearly enough room to store everything, and where he’d put everything else if they didn’t. He’d woken up the next morning in a daze—terrified for a moment that he didn’t recognize where he was. But he was warm, and comfortable even on the scratchy, hideously pea-green carpet. Keith’s arm was looped around his waist, pulling him close. Keith’s breath was warm on the back of his neck.

He’d watched the dust floating in the early morning sun, watched the fat, white clouds floating aimlessly about in the sky. And he’d felt then, like maybe he was right last year. Maybe his life really would begin and end with Keith.

Maybe that first deep breath of clear air wasn’t just because he was finally far away from his hometown. Maybe, deep down, he’d known even back then that something phenomenal was going to happen—something so substantial that it would shake the foundation of the rest of his existence.

Because everything—even moving, even taking cold showers, even working in the early morning and attending classes late at night—everything feels better with Keith.

Keith texts him every day when he wakes up. It isn’t anything too cheesy or romantic. It isn’t anything that maybe a friend, too, wouldn’t send. But he texts every morning. And he says goodnight every night. And he calls when he knows that the both of them are free to talk, texts during the short breaks when they won’t have enough time to communicate face to face.

Keith makes time for him. Keith thinks of him, even when he isn’t around.

And during the weekends, they go out. They study together at restaurants and coffee shops. They go to museums and see movies. They argue about Bubble Tea, about romance movies, about the toppings they both prefer on pizza. Keith drives them out sometimes, to the town where he grew up.

He shows Lance the park where he used to play when he was a kid. He shows him the group home where he went after his dad disappeared. He puts together a clearer picture of who he must have been before all of this. He opens himself up, so honest and vulnerable, that Lance can’t help but fall in love with him somehow even harder.

Lance steps out of the shower, dries himself off with one of the towels hanging on the rack just outside of the tub. He thinks that this is the right one—the one that Hunk hadn’t claimed for his own, but he’s never been very good at remembering.

He brushes his teeth, wipes the fog away from the mirror. There are dark circles under his eyes. His hair is standing up in all directions. He remembers a time when he used to get eight solid hours of sleep, at least, a night. He remembers a time when he used to fantasize about staying out until the early morning going to parties. He doesn’t recognize those feelings within himself anymore.

He doesn’t remember how it must have felt to be that lonely. To think, at one point, that the hardest thing he might ever do is tell some cute boy his name.

When he finishes brushing his teeth, he takes a moment to fiddle with his hair. Keith has seen him at his worst more times that he can count now—half asleep after an all-nighter, miserable and covered in condiments after a particularly horrible shift at the Deli. And Lance hasn’t been too worried about appearances at school lately either, opting for the quickest look over the sleekest, wondering if maybe he’s letting himself go entirely too early in his relationship, but reasoning with himself that he doesn’t exactly have the time or the reason to show off to anyone anymore.

At least not on school days. At least not when Keith isn’t going to be around to see him, before he’s so exhausted that all of the hard work that he might have potentially put into his appearance has all faded away to dry skin and dark circles, product greasy and stringy in his hair.

He gets dressed soon after, making his way into the kitchen with his towel still around his shoulders. Hunk has set the table already—placed the stereotypical vase with two wilting flowers in the center of it, as though somehow the sight of them alone might allow Lance to fool himself into thinking that he could ever feel quite as invigorated after breakfast as the people do in the movies and TV shows.

But he smiles regardless, slides noiselessly into his seat. The two of them talk idly, enjoying their food. Hunk talks about Shay’s new program, Lance tells him about how things are going at his new job.

And eventually, the two of them part ways. Hunk, to his early morning classes, Lance, to his opening shift.

Opening is a quiet monotony. He jokes with Keith about the prospect of trying his hand at Shiro’s menu cartoons over texts.

Keith tells him, _ ‘You’d better be careful or he might block you online this time. He’s defensive of those stupid drawings.’ _

And the day passes. Throughout his small moments of free time, he makes plans to spend the late evening with Keith.

It’s mid-October now. Keith’s birthday is in less than a week.

The big twenty, Lance had joked. He’d never imagined that he’d be dating such an older, refined man.

Keith had shoved him playfully,  _ “I’m not going to be your silver fox, sorry.” _

And Lance had wondered idly if proposing that Keith move in with him only a year into their relationship was moving too quickly. Hunk had agreed that he wouldn’t mind another person to cook for, to clean up after. Lance had reassured him that Keith continues to be inexplicably tidy.

Life has become more regular now. Things, it seems, just aren’t as capable of terrifying him anymore.

After he leaves his final class of the night, Keith is waiting for him in the van, just outside of his building. Not a lot of places are open this late at night, but driving, he’d reassured Keith, was just fine with him. He needed some peace and quiet after such a busy day.

It’s nearly pitch black as he makes his way down the path towards Keith. He can feel the phantoms of memories whisking past him—all of the times before this that he’s walked the same steps, towards the same car, towards the same person. How worried he’d been, once upon a time, that he would never be able to do this sort of thing ever again.

It’s funny, in a way, thinking that his mind had conjured up so many “almost” endings. That he’d convinced himself that every little bump along the way was going to be the last of him. But Keith, through everything, has always been waiting at the end of the path. He’s always been there, reliably, to meet up with him at the end of a long day.

He pulls open the door, slides into his seat, clicks his seat belt. Keith isn’t smiling at him now, but he’s used to this. He’s used to the quiet, to the comfortable, wordless moments that they’ll spend together, just basking in one short respite in a small lapse between their busy schedules.

He speaks first, as he usually does. He knows by now that Keith isn’t very good at greetings.

“Where do you wanna go?”

It’s warmer outside than it has been in a few weeks. Summer, it seems, hasn’t quite given up its grasp on their town, hasn’t unclenched its fingers from the world around them loosely enough that the autumn cold can ease in completely. It’s warm enough that he feels slightly overheated in his leather jacket. Sweat beads his brow, the space between his shoulder blades, but he’s far too sleepy to shrug it off.

“We could get drinks,” Keith offers, but it sounds to Lance like less of a suggestion, and more like a carefully thought-out plan. He nods then, happy just to be allowed not to think too hard about anything—after spending so much of today with his brain running a mile a minute.

They’d gotten busy at the Deli, right before Shiro finally came in to begin his shift. Lance had run back and forth so many times that he was surprised not to find the indentations of his sneakers in the linoleum. And even with the two of them working together, it was nearly the end of his shift before the lines thinned out enough that he even had time to stop and take a much-needed sip of water.

In class, they’d been studying for midterms. Keith had bought him a wide variety of highlighters to mark up his notes, and he’d used nearly all of them. He’d already been tired by then, enough so that he’d opted to take a nap during the time of his cancelled class.

But he’d awoken then feeling somehow more tired than before.

And he’d dragged himself through the rest of the day like a dying man, just looking for somewhere to lie down and fall asleep for good.

“That sounds great,” he says, as less of an affirmation and more of a feeble attempt to momentarily fill the silence.

Keith’s hand finds his between their seats. He watches the street lamps streaking by outside of his window. There’s music playing softly on the radio--some pop song that he doesn’t recognize. The air conditioning blows softly, humming a perpetual low sound that eases him into a happy calm. He feels at peace here, finally. He feels as though, after a long day, he’s finally allowed to take a moment just to calm down.

Keith tells him quietly, tentatively, about his classes. He talks about his evening shift at the Deli. It was slower in the evening, apparently, but he complains about someone calling in a catering order an hour before they closed for the night.

“It wasn’t even pick-up for tomorrow,” he sneers, grasping Lance’s hand a little tighter, “They seriously thought that we could just bake all new bread and have a hundred sandwiches made for them in like thirty minutes.”

He talks then about Shiro, about Allura and how they apparently found her mice huddled together in the bathroom.

They talk about a lot of things, as Lance’s brain fizzles out, his thoughts flat and colorless, his eyes droopy and tired.

When he shifts back into consciousness, Keith is pressing a cold drink into his hands. They’re parked now, in front of the same convenience store that he remembers from over a year ago—the one where Keith had yelled at him. The one where he’d bared himself for Keith to judge him, blind and trusting, foolish and somehow, for the first time, not wrong to invite another person to see everything about himself that he should have been ashamed of. The one that he’d emulated in that silly birthday display, when he’d told Keith that he loved him.

The place, he thinks, that might have been the beginning of everything.

“It’s weird being back here, after all that’s happened.”

Keith laughs a little at that, settling back into his seat and taking a drink of the big slushie in his hands.

“It is kinda weird, isn’t it?” he asks, through a mouthful of his drink, “it’s kinda like… almost not even the same place anymore.”

There’s an energy here, Lance can feel it. And he knows that everything goes back to this place—back to Keith, back to himself. Back to the Deli with that extra cheese, with his own silly ideas of what Keith’s intentions were, of how the world around him could ever be remotely similar to the universes that existed only in the movies.

He knows that he was wrong back then, when he’d thought that Keith was in love with him, but he isn’t wrong now.

Keith’s hand is cold when it finds his again. His eyes are hooded and dark, his cheeks cast with the long shadows of the lights against, amplified by the pink glow of the neon outside of the window--the street lamps, the passing headlights from the road.

And it’s a simple moment, this one. It’s a short period of time, that he spends with Keith before the two of them go home to sleep for the night.

But he cherishes it, just as he’d cherish everything else with Keith so far.

And tomorrow will be busy. Tomorrow will be another long, stressful drag of time, of obligations, of school and work and studying, and so little freedom to do what he really wants to do.

But even still, he knows that his story isn’t over. These tiny moments with Keith will never have an end.

The future now seems brighter than it’s ever seemed before.

The rest of his life, with Keith, he knows will be lovelier than anything that he could ever watch in any of his favorite movies.

If only because now, it’s real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! A final happy Friday from me, on this story, at least! I really hope you guys liked the ending! This week’s cheese, the very last one, is the favorite of a very, very lovely friend of mine: **googlyeyeseyes123**! Thank you so much for sharing that with me!
> 
> As it is, since this is the end, I wanted to thank a few people for helping with the processes of this story, and for just being generally very supportive, good people. 
> 
> I’d like to thank [Dee](https://twitter.com/4everbacon), [HannaLu](https://hannalu-art.tumblr.com/post/170631114212/scene-from-this-klance-fic-called-love-cheese-by), and [AnAwkwardAvocado](https://anawkwardavocadoart.tumblr.com/) for contributing such lovely art! And [Aomine](http://madamemauve.tumblr.com/), [Traffy](http://oneyedkaneking.tumblr.com/), and [Mai](http://bluest-paladin.tumblr.com/) for taking the time to beta various parts of this story! I’d also like to thank Dee, again, for being an amazing friend, and an endless inspiration that turned this story from the tiny four chapter long project that it was originally intended to be, into this 100k+ word story that it ended up being!  
> And finally, I’d like to thank everyone who shared their favorite cheeses with me, as well as everyone who commented, left kudos, and took the time to read. 
> 
> For seven months now, this story has been a consistent pleasure to write, and I’m so happy that I got to share that experience with all of you.  
> So, until the next time that we might cross paths in the future, I hope you all stay very, very cheesy! <3
> 
> [tumblr](https://curionabang.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/MothIsland)


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